


Possession

by MrsJohnReese



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Alexis Hanson had secrets, like everyone else, though some were harder to keep than others. Some of them were even deadly. And in spite of the protection offered by two of her closest friends, she may soon be forced to realize that even that protection might not be enough-not when the very person that should've had her back may end up being the greatest danger of all. Billy/OC
Relationships: Billy Russo/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. The Tail

"You clean that sink any more, and it'll double as a second mirror."

"That's the idea," I quip, not even bothering to look up from my work, though I can clearly hear the huff of exasperation that my best friend gives me as a result. "Not everyone is terrified of a little elbow grease, Karen."

"Ouch. You wound me."

"Good thing I'm a doctor, then."

"Says you," Karen retorts, the sound of heels clacking against the linoleum of the kitchen floor alerting me to the fact that she has decided to move to the space of countertop just beside where I stand, and lean her hip against its edge while simultaneously crossing her arms over her chest. "I've never witnessed this."

"I've got the diploma to prove it."

"Also something I've never seen—"

"Some people don't need proof for everything, you know."

"And some people make a living off of that sort of proof."

Smiling in spite of my half-hearted aggravation, I pause in the act of cleaning for long enough to shoot my companion a roll of the eyes, her answering laugh prompting me to shake my head a bit in renewed exasperation and amusement. Ever since I could remember, our relationship had been centered around this sort of mutual sparring, more often than not giving the impression that we were far less forgiving of each other than we really were.

You would be surprised at exactly how often that attribute actually benefitted us, no matter how counter-intuitive that may seem on the surface—

"Oh, right, I almost forgot!" I tease, pulling back from my work at the kitchen sink, and stepping around Karen's slightly taller frame so that I can toss the used rag into the washing machine just beyond the doorway to our left. "You're a reporter."

"Wow, Lex, getting senile on me already?"

"Maybe."

"You know they have medications for that, right?"

In lieu of a verbal reply, I settle instead for shooting Karen a look that told her I was very well aware of the litany of medical remedies for poor memory without saying a word, her answering laugh giving me every indication that she understood the meaning behind the look without a second thought. Once again, I am rendered grateful at how easily she interprets the mood without ever needing verbal proof to back it up—

I suppose that is just one of the many reasons I chose this girl to be my roommate.

Her other qualities aside, though, perhaps what I adore the most about Karen Page is that she has an inexplicable knack for taking the absolute worst of my days, and making them at least a touch more bearable. She had been there—always—since the very worst had happened, and for that, I was immeasurably grateful, no matter how much we may engage in these mock arguments, and give each other hell.

"So, you have to work today, or do you have the night off?"

"I'm off, actually," I reply, turning just a bit to face her, while simultaneously granting myself the ability to lean against the counter, with my head cocked just a bit to the side. "What did you have in mind?"

"Drinks at the bar down the road? Maybe some dancing if we find a man that fits the bill?" Karen suggests, a knowing smile crossing her features as she recognizes my sudden laugh, and sees it for what it really is. "Don't even think of backing out on me, Alexis, you've done that too much already."

"Fine. I'll go. When were you thinking?"

"How long will it take you to get ready?"

"Somehow, I knew it was coming to that," I retort, unable to resist the urge to smile even in spite of how I am still determined to make a show of feigning irritation. "I suppose you don't want me to finish cleaning first, before we go?"

"Damn straight."

"Then I'll go get started now. Meet you at the car in twenty?"

"Sure thing."

Whether I wanted to or not, at the start of the day, it looked like a night on the town was going to take up its remainder without my ever having planned it to begin with.

…

Hours later, with a semi-significant buzz from the numerous martinis both Karen and I had downed as though our lives depended on it , and a few dances under my belt courtesy of the equally intoxicated bar-hoppers in the vicinity, I found that I was actually having a semi-decent time, in spite of my former trepidation. Naturally, there was a part of me that remained convinced that I might still have been better off at home, perhaps with a glass of wine, and a good book.

Of course, I knew that Karen would never have allowed that so long as there was breath in her body.

"So—are you actually having fun, or what?" She asks, leaning over to nudge me in the side, and pulling back before my retaliatory swat can connect successfully with her hand as a result. "Hey! I think what you're doing qualifies as shooting the messenger!"

"The messenger deserves it for being cocky about her win."

"I do not!"

"You do," I press, reaching out to swat her again, and this time succeeding, the pout that she gives me in response only prompting me to smile as I turn back to the bar and throw back the last of my martini before going on. "But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate you for it, regardless."

"There it is. The thanks I have been waiting my entire life for."

"Smart ass."

"You know you love it."

"Do I though? I'm not so sure."

"Yeah, well, you should be," My friend retorts, nudging me once again, and this time finding herself surprised when I do not retaliate, my attention having been rather effectively diverted by the sight of the man seated across from us at the bar, who had now chosen to abandon said seat and slink out of the side door.

"Damn it."

"What? You don't agree?"

"No, I agree. We—would you just give me a second?" I stammer, hopping down from my own chair and snagging my purse from the hook built into the back, before I was off after the man without even giving Karen time to reply. I knew it was foolish, with so many potential witnesses—so much at stake, if the wrong person overheard. But in spite of that awareness, I was not entirely willing to give up, my heels clicking against the floor of the bar until I reached the same side door the man I followed had just exited through, and shoved it open to step into the bitingly cold night air on my own.

It only takes a matter of seconds for me to realize that whoever it was that had been watching us—watching me—has already made it halfway down the crowded sidewalk in a sure trek towards the ally running perpendicular to it, the fabric of his jacket flapping behind him, as he went. Belatedly, the thought occurred to me that this might be a ruse—that the almost careless manner in which he allowed himself to be followed, as though he wanted me to do so should be raising at least a dozen red flags that would prompt me to stop. But I knew the jacket he wore. I knew what it meant. And in spite of the fact that I was angry as hell that he was incontrovertible proof that I was, in fact, still being tailed in spite of numerous requests to the contrary, I found myself oddly touched at the gesture, regardless—

Or at least, I was touched, until I rounded the corner to follow after the man myself, only to find that he had disappeared, my pace slowing a bit as a result, and thus rendering me vulnerable to the assault that came next.

In seconds, I feel a hand grabbing roughly at my wrist, the instinctive scream that built up almost immediately in response dying rather quickly in my throat as I am subsequently whirled around to find my back pressed flush against my assailant, while my cheek jams against the brick of the alleyway and my arm is twisted behind my back until it becomes almost painful. For a moment, the reason why I came to the alleyway to begin with fades away, only to be replaced with an almost paralyzing fear that causes my heart to pound away against the cage provided by my ribs, while my mouth goes so dry that I very nearly choke.

And then I hear it—a soft, yet familiar chuckle that sends gusts of warm air wafting against the back of my neck, the shiver I give in response only seeming to provoke still more amusement as I feel my assailant press their body still closer to my own, if that were even possible, the voice that reaches my ears causing every muscle I possess to tense in anticipation of what I know I am expected to do next.

"Bad form, Hanson—I expected more."

…


	2. Uphill Battle

"Bad form, Hanson—I expected more."

"Maybe you should lower your expectations, then," I retort, flexing my hand, and suppressing a wince as the grip upon my wrist only tightens as a result. "You mind letting me get my face away from this brick wall?"

"Nah—I kind of like you right where you are."

I only wait a moment before opting for slamming the heel of my shoe down on my would-be assailant's foot, the low grunt that the act elicits giving me some small measure of satisfaction while I simultaneously shove the elbow of my free arm into his abdomen. Truthfully, I should have foreseen the muted pop of protest that my opposite shoulder gave in response to the movement, and its steadfast constraint, pinned behind my back.

Of course the fact that I hadn't only meant that the man that still crowded me with his significantly taller frame was, unfortunately, far more intuitive than I wanted to admit.

"Easy, killer—wouldn't want to dislocate that shoulder."

"Shut up."

Surprisingly, the retort succeeds in allowing me to regain at least some freedom of motion, the hand at my wrist dropping away, and allowing me to wrench my arm around so that I can stretch the appendage to regain full range of motion while simultaneously turning on a heel to face the man behind my recent captivity more directly. Even with my current choice of footwear, I still have to tilt my head back to look up at him, that reality provoking a small huff as I realize the gesture has only given my companion the leave to smirk down at me as though I am the funniest thing he has seen in quite a while.

"You look good, Lex."

"Gee, thanks," I quip, moving to step out from between the brick wall at my back, and my companion, only to find that I am thwarted once again as he steps forward, and I am forced to move back until my spine bumps gently against the alley wall once again. "Russo, what the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to prove a point. Why did you come out here alone?"

"Why did you put a tail on me after I specifically asked you not to?"

"Answer the question, Alexis," Billy snaps, the almost jovial demeanor of just moments ago fading away so quickly that I am left wondering if it even existed in the first place. "Why did you come out here alone?"

"Did you miss the part where I mentioned the tail?"

"If you're trying to be cute, it isn't working."

"I'm not trying to be cute. I'm being realistic," I bite out, pushing at the center of his chest to try and persuade him to stand down, so that I can move away from the constraint of his body, and the brick wall at my back. "I can take care of myself, Billy."

"Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing."

"Yeah? Maybe if you step back you'll get a better view."

Before he can stop me, I am pushing past him and heading back towards the entrance of the alleyway, the sound of heavy footfalls following behind me only a matter of seconds later echoing against the bricks, and causing me to instinctively slow my own pace in spite of my aggravation. Almost too soon for my liking, he catches up, his arm brushing against my own once or twice as we clear the alleyway, and reach the sidewalk just beyond—

And then I see it. The town car waiting at the curb precisely level with the exit of the bar I have so recently vacated, as though the conclusion of my evening had been determined long before I had even arrived.

"No. No, no, no—"

"You haven't even heard my offer yet."

"I don't have to. The answer is still no."

"What if I told you there were more martinis waiting with your name on them?"

"No, Billy," I press, my tone carrying faintly wheedling quality to it that I am not entirely fond of as I risk a peek at his features and find that, instead of the almost icy neutrality that I had been greeted with just moments before, now, Billy's features have settled into something a bit closer to what I am used to. "You can't bribe me with alcohol. I have to go to work tomorrow. You have to go to work tomorrow."

"You seem to be forgetting I own my own company—"

"Not all of us have that luxury, you know."

"For the love of God, Alexis, just get in the car," Billy demands, dark eyes locking onto mine, and freezing me to the spot for a moment even in spite of my desire to avoid exactly that. It's strange, really, how just that one look causes my blood to chill in my veins, when its mirror opposite had hardly fazed me at all during what might have been described the peak of his aggravation with my actions and their potential consequences.

Once again, I find myself coming face to face with the realization that no matter how hard I try, I will never understand Billy Russo.

And so, I simply get in the car.

…

The ride to Billy's apartment passes mainly in silence, my eyes remaining glued on the scenery just outside the vehicle's window in lieu of risking any further remark that might incense my silent companion. Truthfully, I always knew he had a mercurial temperament, though even that small measure of foresight could not always prepare me for the reaction that I would receive after a routine quip or inquiry. But even with that knowledge set aside, I find that I am no less apprehensive over finding myself in a situation such as this, my teeth worrying gently at my lower lip for a moment, until I realize that the car has pulled to the curb, and come to a stop without as much as a jolt.

"This is it?"

"You sound so surprised."

"Shouldn't I be?" I inquire, shooting Billy a look, before coming to the realization that the driver has already maneuvered his way through traffic, to my side of the vehicle and opened the door. "It looks more like a fancy hotel than an apartment complex."

Before he has any chance to reply, I step out of the car and glance around at my leisure, my eyes widening a bit in spite of my desire to remain aloof. The building is huge, of course, my gaze drifting up, story after story, until it reaches the top, until I realize that in my distraction, Billy has once again moved to stand at my side, the weight of his eyes on my frame causing my skin to prickle just a bit before he speaks, and effectively jolts me out of my inopportune reverie.

"If you want to stand here all night, that's on you, but it may be warmer inside."

"Let me guess, you own the penthouse on the top floor," I joke, a short laugh escaping until I realize that my companion has simply quirked a brow at me in response to my remark, and my cheeks flush almost immediately on instinct. "Crap, you do, don't you?"

The lopsided grin that he gives me is answer enough, of course, my eyes seeming to roll of their own accord as I bump gently against his side, before moving to follow after him as he takes the stairs to the door two at a time. Within a manner of moments, he has the door held open, his eyes watching my movements as I slip past him, and head towards the interior vestibule of the building, which houses a sizeable receptionist desk nestled securely between two marble pillars, with a chandelier placed evenly between them. And naturally, as I glance at the small prisms of light that cast about the room as the gentle breeze from an unseen ventilation shaft causes the tiny pendants to shift to and fro in its wake, I simultaneously find myself falling woefully behind in the task of moving forward, my heart giving a faint lurch as I force my feet to move so that I can catch up before Billy has the chance to comment on how I've fallen behind.

In light of that desire, I find that I am practically jogging into the now waiting elevator, my cheeks burning just a bit in belated embarrassment while I exert the effort to duck my head down in hopes that Billy will not notice.

God, how wrong I was.

"You know, being a doctor, you should be able to afford something like this, yourself," He remarks, one brow cocked in such a way that I cannot help but laugh in a combination of both amusement and obvious skepticism before I reply.

"Two words—student loan."

"You haven't paid that off yet?"

"Are you kidding? I'll be paying it off until I'm in the grave."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm not," I argue, leaning back against the railing situated at waist-level on the elevator wall, and tilting my head back until it could rest gently on the glass. "Believe me, I wish I was, but I'm not."

Not surprisingly, Billy has no ready reply to this admission, save for a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he is privy to some private, internal joke that I would not stand a chance at understanding. Even this reaction is not that outstanding, since I know very well that he is not, nor has he ever been one that you might accuse of abiding by social norms. And although a part of me is still rather more than a little apprehensive over exactly what might be going on, here, I cannot help but feel somewhat secure, all the same, my posture relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages as I simply allow my eyes to close until the slight jarring motion of the elevator coming to a stop forces me to open them once more.

Wordlessly, I follow after Billy as he exits the elevator, and takes a sharp right, my eyes trained on the spot directly between his shoulder blades as I do so. Though I am no stranger to it, I find that I am once again stunned by his height—by the way in which he carries himself, as though always on alert for a potential attack. A part of me pities him for it, even though I know that if he suspected me of harboring even an ounce of that pity, it would do far more harm than good. So where, exactly did that leave me?

Hell if I knew…

Being so lost in my thoughts, I am distracted enough, it would seem, to inadvertently begin to stroll past the door at which Billy has already stopped, my steps halting a bit belatedly after the sound of a softly cleared throat reaches my ears. It is then that I realize my companion is not, in fact, at my side, but has come to a stop a good few feet behind where I stand, a sigh escaping me as my shoulders deflate, and I turn back to rejoin him at the proper door.

"Distracted?"

"No."

"Why don't I believe you?" Billy muses, returning his attention to the task of unlocking the door to his apartment, and succeeding in that matter in almost no time at all.

"Because you have trust issues?"

"Very funny, Alexis."

"I try," I murmur, side-stepping past him as he gestures for me to enter the apartment first, and squinting at the sudden shift from bright outer hallway, to dimly lit inner foyer. "Are you sure about this? Because I could just go home—"

"Save it," Billy retorts, cutting over my obvious attempt at formulating a protest, and flicking on a light switch from somewhere behind where I stand so that we can both move further inside without risking stubbing a toe in the process. As I glance around, though, I can see that such a worry is at least for the most part, unfounded, the pristine shine of the floors causing me to arch both eyebrows before I turn back to face Billy more directly while simultaneously beginning the task of toeing off my heels.

"You keep a clean place, Russo."

"I try."

I do not miss the obvious attempt to use my own words against me, the corner of my mouth turning up in partial amusement even in spite of my desire to prevent it. For some inexplicable reason, whatever tension had continued to try and work its way between us seems utterly spent, now, something in the way Billy has relaxed far more in the few moments we have been inside than he ever had up until this point indicating that we may just be on the upswing of that uncertainty, for good. And, in spite of how I completely understand the magnified sort of wariness that has been drilled into him every bit as much as it has been in every other man and woman I have the occasion to know from the military, I would be a liar if I were to pretend that I was not abundantly relieved that as a direct result of Billy's ease of mind, I could unwind just a bit as well…

"If you want to take a shower, feel free," He instructs me then, striding ahead of me to venture further down the hall leading out of the foyer, and flicking on another light switch that rests within a room that I can already tell is far too spacious to be the sort of bathroom I am used to before elaborating further. "I've got some spare clothes you could borrow as well. They probably won't fight right, but—"

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Billy. Thank you."

"Anytime," Billy responds, stepping back from the doorway to the bathroom, and leaning against the doorframe instead with both hands securely placed in his pants pockets. "The bedroom is through the door at the other end of the bath."

"The—the bedroom," I stammer, my cheeks once again taking up the worrisome act of flushing for all they're worth, thus forcing me to avert my eyes for a moment in a vain attempt at regaining at least some of my composure. "I—I don't think—"

"Relax, Lex, I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."

My mouth opens to issue a reply to that assertion, of course, though with how my throat has suddenly gone dry and constricted as though some external force has it in a vice like grip, no words come out, my mouth likely gaping open like a fish for a few moments before I shake myself, and clamp my lips shut once more. Whether Billy catches onto this fact, or not, I cannot tell, particularly once he is turning on a heel and heading in the opposite direction with all the certainty of a man that could find his way around any locale, even when blindfolded. Before he disappears through another doorway that I had completely missed on the first pass through the hall, however, I realize that he is turning back to face me once more, the expression on his face unreadable as he regards me for a moment in silence, seemingly heedless of the small shiver that the act provokes as he decides for giving further instruction.

"Feel free to go through the drawers for the clothes," He states, ignoring my wide-eyed look of surprise at being given virtual free reign to go through his belongings, unattended, and sending me a faint smile and a wink before saying the few words that have me blanching as though he is suggesting I confess my deepest secret to the President himself.

"And go ahead and call your friend from the bar, too. We don't want any interruptions from the police because she's put out an amber alert on you."

Of course he would have taken the time to notice that I was not alone prior to our meeting—and now, I was left with the task of explaining my predicament to Karen.

To say that I was anything less than mildly disgruntled at the prospect would have been a lie.

…

"So you're in his apartment?" Karen exclaimed, the tone of her voice rising several octaves, and forcing me to remove my cell from its place beside my ear with a wince and a soft laugh. "Wow. I never pegged you for the 'taking a guy home from a bar' type, Lex."

"He's not your ordinary guy," I reply, the sensation of my cheeks flushing causing me to lean back against the countertop in the bathroom, while the fingers of my free hand drum idly against the granite surface. "And before you say anything, no, we're not going there."

"Damn. You disappoint me."

"I'm good with that."

"Where are you right now?" Karen presses, laughing almost as soon as she hears my resultant huff of exasperation, and apparently deciding to endeavor to get me to answer, regardless. "Come on, don't leave me hanging, here—"

"If you must know, I'm in the bathroom."

"Classy."

"I'm telling you, Karen, it's not what you think," I add, the silence on the other end of the line giving me every reason to believe that my friend is more than a little skeptical of my assertion, while I tread a bit further into the bedroom, and once again marvel at the utter lack of any personal touches therein. Almost instantaneously, it occurs to me that perhaps the very reason why Billy seemed to give me the freedom of going through his things to find something suitable was because there in fact was nothing even remotely personal that I would risk discovering in doing so.

Go figure.

"Hey—did you disappear on me?" Karen inquires, her voice rather effectively startling me out of my internal musings, and forcing me to attempt a bit more in the way of alert attention as a result.

"No. No, Karen, I didn't."

"Then did you find something scandalous in the guy's sock drawer?"

"Karen, oh my God—"

"What? It's a valid inquiry, since you're being so elusive."

"I'm not being elusive," I protest, perching on the edge of the white coverlet that adds the finishing touch to an almost disturbingly perfectly made bed, and running my fingers against the fabric in idle little patterns for a moment before speaking any further. "Have you ever considered the fact that there may just be nothing scandalous to tell?"

"You're in a guy's bedroom, Alexis. There has to be something scandalous to tell."

"Says the reporter."

"Can I help it if my instincts are usually always right?"

"They aren't at the moment," I assure her, rising to stand, and padding on bare feet over soft carpeting towards the dresser in which I had located the pair of sleep shorts, and t-shirt that I now wore. Truthfully, to get them to fit, I had been forced to roll the waistband of the shorts a few times, thus making it so that the t-shirt's hem would dip below them if I did not exert an effort to keep it up as well. But of course even with that awareness, I could not entirely find it within myself to complain, the lingering smell of a rather pleasing cologne tickling my nostrils as I duck my head to inhale the scent of the fabric covering my shoulder, before gathering the wherewithal to speak to my friend once again. "Besides, you should be happy that you have our place to yourself for the evening."

"True. I can watch as many reruns of CSI as I want."

"See? There's always an upside to everything."

"You're going to tell me every single thing that happens once you get back," She orders, the certainty in her order causing me to roll my eyes even in spite of the fact that she cannot see the gesture for herself. "No details spared."

"I promise you, Karen, if there are any details, you'll be the first to know."

Whatever she may suspect, though, for my own part, I have already decided against leaving the room I currently occupy until the morning, my hands automatically reaching to pull back the covers of the bed after I end the call, so that my body can instinctively clamber beneath them, thus allowing me to relax into sleep mere seconds after my head touches the pillow.

…

Hours later, I find myself jolted awake by the same recurring dream that has been plaguing me for months, now, my breath catching in my chest, until it finally chokes out in a ragged gasp that seems to echo around the now darkened bedroom. For a moment, it seems as though I am still caught in the dream itself, the weight of a familiar hand pressing into my back so that I am forced, face-first against the softness of the grass beneath me, while gunshots threaten to overwhelm my sense of hearing in a matter of seconds so realistic that I instinctively reach back, to ascertain whether it is truly there, or not. But of course, when I do, I learn that nothing is there, save my own hand, and a sweat dampened shirt, my heartbeat still pounding against my ribcage as I attempt to come to terms with the fact that I will never feel the weight of that other hand again.

The realization comes almost in tandem with that of the feel of another, much more realistic touch upon my cheek, my entire body freezing for a moment as I scramble to try and discern the source. My eyes narrow, of course, as they adjust to the lack of light and land upon familiar features, albeit shadowed just a bit as he has not deigned to turn on a lamp—and although some part of me does not want to, I find that I am pulling away, my own hand lifting to rest against my cheek where his had been just moments before while I force myself to somehow gather the wherewithal to speak.

"How—how did you—"

"For all my attempts at impeccable security, these walls are remarkably thin," Billy supplies, shrugging one shoulder, while simultaneously keeping his gaze resolutely fixed upon my own. "You sounded like you were—"

"God, I'm sorry," I whisper, running the hand that had been at my cheek across the entirety of my face, and keeping my gaze averted in hopes of alleviating at least some portion of my embarrassment. "I never meant to wake you."

"I'm not concerned with that, Lex. I'm concerned with what the hell had you sounding like your heart was being torn from your chest."

Unable to concoct an immediate reply, I settle instead for simply allowing Billy's fingers the liberty of threading their way through my own, my eyes resolutely fixed on our hands for a moment while my teeth come out to worry at my lower lip. After everything he has seen, I am hardly willing to disclose the potential triviality of my own concerns and fears, my resolve strengthening just a bit as a result of the thought, and consequently giving me the willpower to shake my head minutely before I begin to reply.

"It was—it was nothing."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

"Billy," I protest, finally persuading my eyes to meet his, and suppressing a jolt of what might have been fear as I come to the conclusion that they have darkened just a bit, for a reason as yet unknown, "Don't you think if it was something major, I'd tell you? Everyone has bad dreams."

"And some people drive themselves crazy trying to ignore them. You know that."

"What about you, then? If we're being honest, why aren't you sharing anything?"

My remark is purely retaliatory in nature, of course. I know it—Billy knows it too, given how his expression has softened just a bit even though part of me expected him to close himself off completely. It is almost as though we have come to some sort of understanding, without even speaking a word, the joint silence between us serving as an agreement where words may have failed. And before I know it, Billy is removing his hand from mine in favor of lifting the covers that shield the lower half of my frame, the gesture causing one of my brows to arch in silent inquiry until I realize he is pushing the covers back so that he can clamber beneath them as well.

"Billy—"

"We need to get you back to sleep," He states, overriding my impending protest, and regarding me with an expression that is so matter-of-fact that I cannot help but emit a small laugh, even in spite of the flush that adorns my cheeks as I shimmy down beside him, and realize for the first time that he doesn't seem to be wearing a shirt. "And I'm too damn tired to go back to the couch."

"You didn't have to let me have the bed," I gripe, trying to situate my body so that it doesn't come into any unnecessary contact with his, only to find the effort thwarted as Billy loops an arm around my waist and pulls me in until I am very nearly squashed against his side.

"Lex?" He murmurs, the sensation of his chin coming to rest just barely against the skin of my forehead causing me to shiver, and consequently prompting him to tighten his hold on me as though he believes the slight movement came from a sudden chill.

"Yeah?"

"D'you think you could stop arguing with me until the morning? Like I said, I'm tired—"

"Sure thing, boss," I quip, the way in which Billy's body shakes just a bit as a result of his laughter over my remark causing me to smile, before I shift just a bit, myself, so that I am more comfortably situated against his lean frame, my eyes closing almost of their own accord, even as a strangely amusing, yet simultaneously unsettling thought comes to mind…

Lord help me if Karen manages to get this particular occurrence out of me in her unavoidable interrogation as soon as I set foot back in our apartment.

…


	3. Trust

Remarkably enough, I pass the rest of the evening with no further dreaming, my entire body feeling more relaxed than it has in ages as I gradually come to, and curl into the as yet unknown source of warmth resting at my side. I can sense the gradual brightening in the room, though my mind tries to ignore that fact in favor of chasing just a bit more sleep; a smile gracing my lips as familiar cologne wafts against my nostrils. For a moment, the comfort provided by that scent causing me to burrow still further against the solid warmth that seems to envelop me almost as eagerly as I move towards it—

But of course my body chooses that particular moment to return to consciousness on a more complete level, my breath catching in my throat for a moment before I am wrenching away from Billy's as yet still sleeping frame, and nearly causing myself to tumble off of the bed and onto the floor as a result.

Regaining my balance, at least to some degree, I am allowed the briefest of moments to glance at my companion, the memories of the evening before coming back to me in jolts and starts, and causing my cheeks to flush. In spite of their burning, though, I am still able to notice the distinct difference in Billy when sleeping, versus Billy when awake, my brow furrowing just a bit as I instinctively reach towards a stray bit of dark hair that has fallen over his cheek, and marvel at how this level of peacefulness has never made itself known upon his features when awake.

"What the hell happened to you, Billy Russo?"

"You don't want to know," Billy replies, his eyes still closed, though a smirk now toys with the formerly relaxed corners of his mouth, while his fingers curl around my wrist and keep my hand pinned against his cheek. For a moment, we remain exactly as we are; my fingers relaxing so that their tips brush against the stubble at his cheek, thus causing his hand to slacken its hold just a bit on my wrist as he realizes I don't intend to immediately pull away. But almost as soon as the moment transpires, it is broken just as quickly, the full weight of Billy's gaze resting on me as he opens his eyes, and I am forced to gently extract my hand from his grasp.

"What time is it?"

"You're asking the man who literally just woke up?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," I state, pushing myself into a sitting position, and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, my toes brushing against the material of the carpet for only seconds before I am aware of a distinct source of warmth mere inches from my back. "Billy, I have to go to work."

"I know you do. Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just—I want to make sure we're good," Billy admits, the pressure of his hand against my back at the space just between my shoulder blades causing me to unwittingly roll my shoulders as though I really desire to dislodge the weight.

God, but that is such a damned lie…

"Why wouldn't we be?" I inquire; standing and twisting just a bit at the waist to look at Billy more directly. "Unless one of us did something in our sleep, there's nothing that either of us has to apologize for, is there?"

"If we did, how would either of us know?"

Unable to resist the laugh that breaks free in response to his almost immediate retort, I opt for a simple shake of my head before padding over to the dresser where I left my phone, and reaching for the device with a barely suppressed wince as I realize I now stand next to no chance of getting to work on time.

"Shit."

"That's a hell of a way to answer the question."

"It wasn't an answer, Billy, it was the sudden realization that I'm going to be late to work, and won't even have the time to shower."

"Everyone is late every now and again."

"Oh really? And do you accept that excuse from your own employees?"

"My employees are never actually late." Billy states, scooting to the edge of the bed himself, before standing and snaking an arm out to pull me towards him once again so that he can drop his nose to the juncture of my neck and shoulder and inhale in a way that makes me shiver. "And you smell fine, by the way."

"Gee, thanks."

"Any time."

"I'm going to need a ride back to my apartment, you know," I manage amidst a slight laugh that escapes as I wriggle away from Billy and glance in the mirror above the dresser, the resultant wince as I catch my reflection causing me to opt for looking at Billy again, instead. "Since I don't have access to my car—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll drive you."

"But—"

"I'll drive you, Alexis," Billy repeats, moving to stand, himself, and hovering over me so that he can plop one finger against the bridge of my nose in spite of how I try, albeit belatedly, to flinch away.

"Go ahead and get yourself dressed. Your coworkers would probably question you showing up in another man's pajamas."

No matter how much I hate to admit it, I know for a fact that in this matter, at least, Billy is right…

…

"So—are you ever going to tell me who it was that dropped you off this morning?"

"Truthfully, I was planning on avoiding the subject altogether," I quip, logging out of the online patient portal, and scooting past Andrew Rawlins, a fellow physician and friend almost since my first day on the job, though the act does not seem to be enough to persuade him to relinquish the subject in its entirety.

"Nice try, Hanson. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"A girl can dream."

"You wouldn't want that, and you know it."

"Wouldn't I?" I muse, stifling a laugh in response to the predictable manner in which Andrew's elbow meets my side in a light nudge, and choosing to lead us into a more secluded area of the Emergency Department before attempting to elaborate. "He's a friend. That's all."

"Right. And I'm George Washington."

"I'm serious, Andrew."

"So am I," My friend insists, stepping a bit closer to me to allow an orderly to pass through the hall, and lifting an auburn brow in obvious skepticism of my assertion before elaborating further. "Don't tell me you missed the way he was looking at you."

"Are you sure he wasn't ogling a nurse? I mean, Vicki was right there—"

"Trust me Hanson, the man wasn't looking at Vicki. Which is a first, come to think of it."

"You're blind."

"You're in denial."

"And you won't be willing to just agree to disagree, will you?" I muse, leaning against the wall at my back, and folding both arms against my chest as I realize that Andrew is opting against a verbal reply, in favor of simply shaking his head in the affirmative. "I might have known."

Andrew watches me for another few moments in silence, of course, the scrutiny provided by such a thing causing me to tense just a bit even in spite of the inherent trust I have in him as a friend. I know, of course, that he only has my best interests at heart, particularly as I know full well that the loss of his own sister at a relatively young age has rendered him perhaps a bit more protective than would otherwise be the case. But even with that knowledge, I cannot entirely bring myself to shake the apprehension that mars what might have been an otherwise heartwarming moment, my tongue darting out to wet my lips for a moment before I straighten my posture and risk speaking once again.

"Listen, Andrew, whether he was or wasn't watching me, I promise you, Billy Russo is just a friend. Nothing more."

"He looked dangerous, Lex."

"Oh yeah? Well, have you ever thought, just for a moment, that I could be dangerous too?"

"Come on," Andrew scoffs, shaking his head in obvious disbelief, though I can see that my retort has, at least for a moment, succeeded in lessening the concern apparent in his features by a fraction of a degree, if not a little more, "You're a healer. You save lives, you don't end them."

"That doesn't mean I can't, if I have to."

"Alexis—"

"I can, Andrew," I insist, aware of the doubt that remains apparent in his expression, and choosing to ignore it as best I can in favor of trying to reassure myself, as well. "I know who I can trust and who I can't."

"Well I, for one, sure as hell hope you're right about that."

"I am."

"You'd better be," Andrew states, giving me one final, cautioning look, before opting to move back towards the main thoroughfare, and consequently causing me to jog a bit so that I can catch up. "Because I'm not about to just sit by and watch you walk into a situation that you can't handle."

It seems, whether I like it or not, I may have just acquired another would-be guardian angel.

…...

The remainder of the shift passes relatively uneventfully, even in spite of the fact that we are nearly neck-deep in patients, the ease inherent in working with Andrew, particularly when compared to how it can be when we are forced to work apart—and not for the first time, I find that I am remarkably grateful for his presence, my hand rising from its place at my side to cover an unexpected yawn while I simultaneously fall into step beside him as he approaches from across the room.

"You're still alive, I see."

"Yeah, so are you," I quip, bumping my shoulder against Andrew's side, and stifling a laugh as he retaliates in kind almost immediately. "I have to say, I'm surprised."

"Jerk."

"You love me and you know it."

"Do I?" Andrew muses, lifting a brow and leveling a sidelong glance towards me as we maneuver around a nurse and her new trainee before coming to a stop at one of the desks that, mercifully, has two open computers for the requisite completion of notations prior to the end of a shift. We persist in that act for a moment or two in a companionable silence, though I am not quite exhausted enough to miss the fact that every now and again, Andrew keeps glancing over at me, as though wanting to say something, but lacking the courage to do so in the end.

I wonder, albeit only for a moment, what, exactly, that is all about…

Before I can spend too much time considering what that might mean, however, I find that I am almost immediately distracted by the sight of the very same man I had seen in the bar prior to finding myself caught up with Billy what now feels like ages ago, my brow furrowing as he persists in closing the distance between us, and leans up against the countertop beside the desk as if he belongs there.

"Alexis Hanson?"

"Yes?"

"I'm here to take you home."

"Wait—what? Why?" I stammer, my body tensing almost on instinct, while I simultaneously realize that Andrew has managed to inch just a bit closer to me so that he can get a look at the guy for himself.

"I don't think so."

"I think it's the lady's choice regarding who she leaves with."

"And as her friend, it would be my responsibility to see that she doesn't go home with a man she barely knows," Andrew snaps, straightening infinitesimally as though trying to use that age-old ruffled feathers tactic to ward off a potential predator—a fact that, oddly enough, forces me to stifle a snort of amusement even in spite of the reality of the situation, "I can take her home."

"I have rather specific instructions," The stranger persists, sparing a last, brief glance for Andrew, before turning his attention to me, "From someone I believe you know personally?"

"And who might that be?"

"Billy Russo."

Of course he would do something like this—because apparently I am completely incapable of finding my way home on my own.

"You can tell Mister Russo that I can find my own way home," I reply, logging out of the computer I had taken for compiling last minute notes, and standing in hopes of proving myself more certain than I am feeling. "I'll take a cab."

"Or I'll take you home."

"That isn't necessary, Andrew—"

"She's right. You should listen to your friend," The man states, the look he gives me at least somewhat apologetic as he frowns for a moment before going on, "I'm afraid Mister Russo told me not to take no for an answer."

"How convenient," I remark, my eyes narrowing just a bit as I glance at the man more carefully, and realize that the identification badge clipped to the outer pocket of his jacket seems, at least on the surface, to be legitimate, "Why did he not just come for me himself?"

"He's a very busy man, Miss Hanson."

"So are the rest of us. She's not going with you."

"Andrew—"

"You're not."

"Andrew, I really think it's fine."

"Since when?"

"Since I know it's basically futile to try and do otherwise," I admit, aware of Andrew's scrutinizing gaze, and choosing to ignore it even in spite of my own lingering aggravation over having my means of transportation effectively dictated by a third party, "He works for Billy. I promise you, he does."

"Lex—"

"He does, Andrew. I need you to trust me on this, okay?"

Forcing my eyes to meet his gaze, even in spite of how I am most definitely not comfortable doing so, I note that he is clearly scrutinizing me in his own right, as though determined to root out any inkling of hesitation on my part through either my expression, or a slight tremble of hand. Almost immediately, I find that I am forced to acknowledge how easy I must have been for him to read, particularly as he never seemed to lack the ability to determine whatever it is that I happen to be thinking at the time, from the very moment we first met. And although I am partly to blame for not having a better handle on my expressions, some small part of me is absurdly grateful for the reality of a relatively lacking filter now, my eyes searching Andrew's and hoping—praying—that he can sense that I am being entirely sincere.

Whether or not I am thrilled at the obvious demand and expectation of instant obedience that is inherent in the man sent here as a proxy, I need my friend to know that I really will be alright.

"Okay," Andrew finally agrees, surprising me with the sudden decision to reach forward and grab my hand, his fingers giving it a gentle squeeze for a moment before he drops back a step or two and gives me a look that brooks no argument, "But I want you to text me as soon as you make it back home."

"Will do," I nod, stepping out from behind the desk, and trying not to pay too much attention to the slightly satisfied smirk on my would-be escort's features as I level one last glance at Andrew, and give him what I can only hope is an encouraging smile.

I can only hope that by giving my consent to this, such as it is, I haven't just opened a can of worms that I would rather not deal with right now…

…

"Ah, so the prodigal returns."

"If you can really call me that, given the circumstances, then, yes, Karen," I state, entirely failing to suppress my amusement as I shut the door to our apartment behind me, and allow my purse and jacket to flop haphazardly into the chair beside the door, "I have returned."

"You look absolutely exhausted."

"Gee, thanks for the compliment."

"Any time," Karen replies, sending me an answering smile and plopping down on our sofa with a look that indicates I will do the same if I know what is good for me, "So—spill."

"Spill what?"

"You know very well what."

"Absolutely nothing happened, Karen," I begin, leveling my best no-nonsense look her way, and flushing a bit as she remains thoroughly unconvinced. "We talked a bit, and then fell asleep."

"I've never seen someone who actually got sleep look like you do—"

"It wasn't exactly a restful sleep."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I had that dream again. That's all."

"That's all?" Karen exclaims, folding her arms across her chest, and frowning so impressively that I find I almost feel bad for mentioning the dream at all, and worrying her about my state of mind, as a result. "Alexis, that's not something to minimize, and you know it."

"I'm not minimizing it. I'm just aware that it's more of the same."

"I think that comment right there proves that you are."

"Karen," I whine, surprising myself with how quickly I revert to what I know is a rather childish behavior, and yet not entirely finding it within my power to care, "Can we please not talk this to death? I'm fine."

"My ass you're fine," My roommate snaps, the sudden harshness that is so evident in her tone stunning me, and causing my eyes to widen infinitesimally while I wait for her to elaborate further. "I suppose you had to get through the rest of the night alone, after the dream?"

"Well—actually—no."

"No?"

"No," I confirm, flushing a bit in light of what I am about to confess, and rolling my shoulders a bit in a half-hearted attempt at relieving the tension that such a thought provokes, "Billy was—he was really good about it—"

"How so?"

"Karen—"

"How so, Lex?" Karen presses, her disapproving expression shifting into one of concern as she leans forward, and regards me with blue eyes that clearly expect a straight answer—one I am not too sure I can give.

"He stayed with me afterwards. We just—we slept."

"I see."

"I'm serious," I murmur, sensing Karen's apparent doubt over my statement, and furrowing my brow as I realize that some small part of me is actually disappointed that I am telling the truth, "That's it. He took me to work this morning, and then had a driver bring me back here at the end of the shift."

"Well I have to say, given what I've heard about the guy's romantic escapades, I'm impressed."

"Why, exactly?"

"Because I always imagined he would use the whole Casanova thing to his advantage, no matter who the woman was," Karen explains, resting her chin on her hand, and regarding me carefully for just a moment longer before going on, "I guess that means he must actually like you."

"Karen!" I exclaim, flushing once again as I lean forward to swat at her arm, and she dodges out of the way almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind. "I—it's not like that at all."

"Then what is it like?"

"We just—he's an old friend of my brother's. And apparently he's taken it upon himself to look out for me whether I want him to or not."

"How nice of him."

"I always thought so, even if it does make him a bit of a pain in the ass, on occasion."

"Well, so long as he never tries to pull one over on you like he does with all the other women in this city," Karen trails, sending me a wink, and consequently provoking me into a small laugh as a result, "If he does, I'll kick his ass single-handedly."

"Good luck with that. He's Army-trained, you know."

"I've got a few tricks up my sleeve too, Lex. You can bet on that."

Aware that Karen is not about to budge, I settle for simply nodding in acquiescence, my shoulders finally relaxing as I realize that the worst of her inquisition has come to a close. Of course, I know that she only behaves this way because she cares—a fact that is, in spite of its sometimes embarrassing fallout, touching, to say the least. And although there is some part of me that wishes I stood half a chance at evading her questions at least a portion of the time, I know that really, I would not have it any other way.

"Wine?" She inquires, effectively breaking me from my distracted reverie with the question, and causing me to nod rather eagerly as I find that I am absolutely—almost desperately—thirsty. Within seconds, I can hear the tell-tale rummaging in our wine closet, the soft clink of a bottle and two glasses bringing a soft smile to my lips as I opt for simply leaning back against the sofa cushions and waiting for her to reappear. She does so almost immediately, the bottle of red tucked carefully beneath her arm while she holds each glass in her hands as though she had been itching for this moment since waking this morning—and, naturally, it takes me next to no time at all to reach for one of the glasses, the soft chiming of my phone from inside my jacket pocket hardly diverting me at all as I opt for taking a sip of the liquid Karen has just poured, before settling back against the sofa once more.

For the moment, at least, I am determined to remain unchained to the device, or any other form of contact, my attention instead fixing itself on the crispness of the wine while I settle in for what I can only hope will be an evening of harmless chatter with a dear friend.

…


	4. Memories

The next few days passed with relatively little in the way of significant events, the routine presented by work, and almost nightly outings with Karen proving to be a rather effective distraction from the dreams that had seemed all but determined to nag at my mind no matter the time of day. In truth, I was more than a little relieved at having achieved that particular outcome, since I was actually sleeping for what felt like the first time in months—but even with that small blessing, one fact still tugged at my conscience until I could ignore it no longer.

In the time that had passed since he had deposited me at work after our rather impromptu evening together, I had not heard a single peep from Billy Russo.

Naturally I tried time and time again to ignore the sinking sensation that took over nearly every time I truly faced that particular reality, in the flesh, through any means I could think of, though if I were to be honest with myself, literally none of those means prove fruitful. I miss him. In spite of myself, and my own better judgment, I actually miss the man, almost so much that it physically hurts. And of course, I don't dare delve to deeply into the actual reason behind that particular feeling, knowing that, if I do, I will probably absolutely hate the answer.

Still, in the face of how unbelievably hectic work has been over the course of the last few days, I count myself fortunate that I lack the opportunity to dwell too fully on the troubling nature of my sudden over-attachment, the hours I spend in the hospital serving as a surprisingly effective balm for otherwise wayward thoughts. Even Andrew's near to constant worry over what has me so distracted on the rare occasion that we have some downtime is not enough to have me resenting the fact that I seem to have been rooked into so many extra shifts—

As it turns out, exhaustion from work is almost as beneficial as the liquor-buzz I obtain when out with Karen when it comes to obtaining sleep.

I suppose that is what has me at least temporarily oblivious to the fact that something seems odd when I re-enter my apartment, another yawn escaping as I shut the door behind me, and turn to head into the kitchen just off the foyer. I manage a few more steps, my hand reaching out automatically to flick on the light switch that rests on the wall just inside the kitchen, before I step through the doorway and head towards the refrigerator while my stomach gives a loud rumble of approval. Instinctively, my hand drifts toward my abdomen in response, while the other lands on the handle to the refrigerator door—and then I hear it. The tell-tale creak of the floorboard in the living area that would only make a sound if someone stepped on it without realizing where they were placing their foot.

Instinct prompts me to reach for one of the knives that rests in the knife block, the cool weight of it beneath my fingertips providing some small measure of comfort as I risk one breath—two—three—the sensation of someone trying to get nearer to me as quietly as they can causing my skin to prickle as my fingers tighten around the knife.

Before I can fully come to terms with what it is that my body is doing, I whirl with the hand holding the knife held out before me, every muscle I possess tensing as the identity of my would-be intruder fully registers in my mind—

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"That's a damn good way to talk to someone who's only been trying to help you, Hanson," The newcomer quipped, stepping into the light after what felt like ages, and causing me to emit a startled gasp before I ever stood a chance to stop it, "And I thought I told you last time to get a better lock on that front door."

"Yeah, well I've been a bit busy."

"So are the rest of us. Although I suppose if you want to risk death by home invasion that really is up to you."

With a look that I hope is at least slightly successful in conveying the depth of frustration I feel at both the criticism, and the unanticipated visit, I turn from where my companion stands and place the knife back into the block, my teeth grinding together just a bit as I try to corral my wayward thoughts into some semblance of order. Truthfully, had he not shown up at this precise moment, I might have contemplated reaching out myself, even in spite of the fact that doing so had always been highly discouraged in the past—

Regardless, though, my aggravation at the obvious scorn in the man's tone has obviously made me a bit impatient, my shoulders straightening on instinct as I turn back to face him and force myself to speak in as level a tone as I can muster.

"What did you find?"

"Wow, still not much for manners, I see."

"That sort of thing happens when you're scared half to death in your own home," I retort, my posture relaxing just a bit as my companion steps further into the light, and I find myself able to see his features more clearly. His brownish-blond hair appears to have grown out a bit since I last saw him, in addition to a rather disheveled growth of beard framing a face that still looks every bit as weary as it did at our last meeting. But even in spite of the slight twinge of guilt I feel at having so easily treated the man with hostility, I cannot entirely bring myself to come right out and apologize, the anxiousness I feel in obtaining an answer to my initial question prompting me to step just a bit closer to my companion before I attempt to steer him towards my desired topic of conversation for a second time.

"Why are you here?"

"Figured it'd been a while, and you might miss me."

"Ha-ha. The real reason, please?"

"I've got a name. Not sure if it means much, but it's more than I had a few weeks ago. Even you have to agree to that."

"So what is it?" I press, aware that my companion does not appear to desire a quick confession and stifling my irritation that, as always, he has opted instead for dragging the matter out no matter how I might wish that he choose otherwise. "Can I at least get a hint?"

"Does anyone else know I've been coming here?" The man inquires, the suddenness of the change in topic causing me to blink, and shake my head a bit before regarding him with a lifted brow.

"No, of course not."

"Not even your roommate."

"Not even her, no," I confirm, folding my arms across my chest, and exhaling as smoothly as I can manage before going on, "Come on, David, just tell me—"

"Don't. Don't say my name again."

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

"If this place is bugged—" My companion persists, glancing around the interior of the tiny kitchen we occupy, as though he expects that a recording device will somehow just make its presence known, "It's bad enough I've been here more than once, and you know it."

"Fine. I won't say your name," I reply, leaning back against the countertop that rests behind me, and releasing yet another sigh laced with a faint chuckle this time as I realize the man that has so effectively garnered his way into my home is giving me a tight smile of his own. "I promise. It won't happen again."

"Good, then I can give you the name you've been hounding me about for what feels like forever—"

"Please do."

"Agent Orange."

My brow furrows almost as soon as I hear the name, my inability to restrain my faint scoff prompting a slight frown from my companion in return. In spite of our habitual bickering, I can tell that, in this particular instance, he is absolutely, one hundred percent serious—

God, if this guy doesn't have a knack for giving me mental whiplash every chance he gets.

"Agent Orange," I repeat, pursing my lips for a moment as I attempt to convince myself that the name corresponds to a real entity at all, in spite of how much it appears to have been simply made up on the fly, "Alright, I'll bite. What significance does this 'Agent Orange' have to what we're looking at?"

"If I'm right, he has everything to do with it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's the big guns behind the whole thing, Hanson. If there's anyone that can explain what happened to your brother, and his friend, it's him."

Slowly, his words begin to sink in, the reality that we have finally—finally—come closer than ever before to hitting the nail on the head causing my mouth to go dry. Belatedly, I come to the realization that my hands have reached back to grip the edge of the countertop, my knuckles going white while my fingernails dig into the granite in an effort to give myself some measure of stability. Once again, I am face to face with the familiar sense of self-doubt. The feeling that I have bitten off more than I can chew, and that the consequences of doing so will most likely be dire. But in spite of those very real concerns, I cannot help but feel that this entire charade was meant to turn out as it has, my momentary bout of nerves abates at least a little bit, thus giving me the wherewithal to clear my throat and drum my fingers against the countertop for a moment before speaking once more.

"That still doesn't solve the problem that we don't know who this person really is."

"Yeah, I don't think anyone's just walking around on the street introducing themselves like that—"

"Then what do we do? How do we find someone under a fake name?" I demand, my cheeks reddening a bit as I realize that my voice has cracked under the strain of suppressed frustration, "This is your area of expertise, not mine."

"And I'm working on it," David assures me, his tone softening a bit as he steps forward towards me and places a hand on my shoulder while blue eyes secure a hold on my own, "I need you to trust me on this, Hanson. Think you can do that?"

Instead of an immediate reply, I spend a moment in silence, my teeth coming out to worry my lower lip as I consider my rather limited options. On the one hand, I could decide to persist in our impromptu search for answers, no matter the danger that my subconscious practically screams is inherent in such a thing almost from the start. After all, plenty of people put themselves at far larger risk day after day, all in the name of preserving the peace. But, conversely, there is another, very real part of me that almost itches to simply walk away and let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie, if for no other reason than to keep myself out of a fight that could turn very real if I press my case any further.

In spite of that knowledge, however I am not entirely able to reconcile myself with the reality of simply ignoring what instinct all but demands that I acknowledge, my stomach doing a strange little lurch as I realize I never really had a choice in this from the moment I first gave it a chance to linger in my mind.

"I trust you. I do, okay?" I finally reply, shrugging away from my companion, and meandering over to the sink under the pretense of getting myself a glass of water. "I just hoped we'd have a real name to go on, that's all."

"Well I kind of imagined this'd only piss you off, make you want to dig that much deeper 'til we found the son of a bitch," David suggests, the slight wink he gives me prompting another faint laugh, even in the face of my state of unrest. "I'm not stopping unless you tell me to."

"Do you really think I would?"

An answering smile is the only response I am going to receive it seems, before the sound of footsteps passing by my apartment door jolt David back into awareness of his surroundings, blue eyes flicking to meet mine one last time before he is turning on a heel and heading back toward the door. In that moment, I can do nothing save for watch him prepare to leave, knowing full well that in his mind, he has lingered here far too long already. But before he has completely disappeared from the doorway, I find myself stepping from the kitchen back into the hall, one hand coming to rest on the wall while I call after him.

"Thank you—"

The only indication I have that he even heard me is the minute flick of his hand by way of acknowledgement after he has succeeded in pulling the hood of his jacket around his head, obscuring his features from anyone that might make an attempt at passing him by in the hall.

…

Later that night, after a few glasses of wine and an unbelievably pathetic amount of late night television, I inadvertently doze off on the sofa, one foot dangling over its edge while the other is stuffed underneath the spare decorative pillow. To look at the scene objectively, it can't really be comfortable, though I would be the last to pretend that impromptu naps don't often place a person in positions they would never consciously arrange their bodies in—

But whether it is, in fact, my sleeping position, or the wine, or the conversation that took place when I first arrived back home, I find that in spite of my exhaustion, I am thrown head first into the same dream that I had hoped to escape.

Subconsciously, I try to tell myself that it isn't real. That I am safe, in my own apartment, and the sensation of the spring breeze wafting around me and pulling my hair out of the ponytail at the base of my neck is only a figment of my imagination. But no matter how hard that small fragment of my mind tries to drag me back to reality, I am entirely unable to resist the pull of the dream, the sound of a familiar voice sending shock waves through my body as I turn in the dream, and face the noise more directly.

"Hey there, hummingbird. Get into any trouble lately?"

"Shut up, Nathan."

"Damn, someone's grumpy today—"My brother quips, his arm looping itself around my shoulders and tugging me into a one-armed embrace so that he can use his free hand to ruffle my hair, "What're we gonna do about that, I wonder?"

"Nothing, since I'm not actually grumpy," I retort, stifling a laugh as Nathan uses his hold on my shoulder to drop his hand down until he can use his fingers to tickle my side, "Nate—Nate, stop—"

"You know what, Lex? I don't think I really want to."

A squeal seems to be the only answer I am capable of in that moment, as my brother only tightens his grip on me, and uses his other arm to aid in the task of lifting me off my feet so that he can carry me haphazardly toward the small pond at the center of the park. Belatedly, I become aware of the fact that the sound of more laughter than simply my brother's is moving towards us, the sound of rapid footfalls indicating that Lisa and Frank Jr. have joined the fray. But before I can find the wherewithal to urge them to attempt to help me, a jarring noise breaks my concentration, and simultaneously causes Nathan to drop me unceremoniously on the ground before he moves to cover my body with his own.

"What—" I begin, dimly aware of a stinging sensation that has taken root near my left shoulder, though I am entirely unable to come up with a logical explanation for its presence, "Nate, what on earth—"

"Stay down, Alexis. Stay. Down. You hear me?"

Only able to manage a nod, I do my best to make sure it is apparent enough for my brother to notice, my heart slamming against my rib cage as I feel the weight of his body shift until I am completely alone. I am trembling—I absolutely have to be, although I cannot be too sure that I have any right to say with a certainty exactly what has caused an ordinary day to turn on its axis so quickly.

Whatever it is, I know enough to realize that it cannot be good.

"Frank! Dammit, Castle where the hell are you?" Nathan hollers, the urgency in his tone causing his voice to crack as still more sharp sounds split through the air, and cause me to gasp as I finally realize what they are. Gunshots. Clear, piercing gunshots that seem to have absolutely no end, inasmuch as they match the rapid pattering of my heart—and then I hear it. Another sound that chills me to the bone, and forces me to lift my head from its position against the ground just long enough to watch my brother clutching at his abdomen for a moment while a bloom of brilliant red balloons over the pristine white color of his shirt.

Instinct takes over, then, in spite of the fear that has until this very moment rendered me all but paralyzed, and before I can fully realize it, I am pushing myself up from the ground and dashing towards Nathan with all I have. I can see his expression as he glances towards me, the abject fear that rises in his eyes indicating that I have done the precise thing that he feared I would do, all along. Regardless of that fear, though, he does not hold my gaze for long, his mouth opening for one last cry a split second before he falls to the ground.

"Dammit, Alexis, get down!"

"Nathan!"

My exclamation sounds foreign even to my ears, the echo it creates in the wake of gunfire almost eerie in comparison. Before I can even reach him, I know that my brother is dead—I feel it in my bones even though I half-despise myself for admitting it at all. But just as I am dropping to my knees at his side, and shaking him even though I know in my heart that the gesture is futile, I am aware of the resurgence of the gunfire that has been peppering the park, another sting hitting me in the side, and causing me to place a hand against it as though to make the sensation stop, only to come away covered in the same brilliant red that is still spreading across Nathan's shirt…

…


	5. Falling Apart

Catapulted out of the dream with as much force as though someone had quite literally shoved me over the face of a cliff, I jolt upright in my bed with one hand instinctively clutching at my chest, while jagged breaths wheeze their way through my partially constricted throat. A belated shiver rolls over my frame, which unbeknownst to me, has been covered in a fine sheen of sweat—and then I hear it. The unmistakable clicking sound that signifies the opening of my bedroom door.

A sound that has every muscle I possess tensing within seconds while I scrabble at the drawer of the bedside table for the small knife that rests inside. For a moment, I find that I am frozen in the act of simply savoring the feel of the weapon in my hands, and the memory it provokes of when I first received it. But of course almost as quickly as the memory comes, I am forced to shove it aside as my grip tightens around the knife's hilt, my feet swinging over the edge of the bed on instinct until my toes graze against the floor while the door inches open, bit by bit and my heart lodges somewhere between my rib cage and my throat.

It is not lost on me that this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that someone has found their way inside my apartment…

Something in that particular thought seems to spark whatever bit of defiance I have left in the face of my exhaustion, my heart seeming to settle back to its normal position for a moment so that I can gather the wherewithal to stand. The door is opening further, of course, though it feels as though time has frozen stock-still in the interim between the first creak, and my sudden decision to stand erect. Determined not to appear frozen in place whenever the stranger finally deigns to make his or her appearance known, though, I find myself taking a shaky step forward, my hand gripping the knife-hilt so tightly now that I am sure the rough edges of it will be imprinted on the skin of my palm for hours afterward.

Naturally, the blinding light that assaults my eyes just as I am about to make another step forward stops me in my tracks, however, a muted oath escaping my lips as I recognize a familiar voice as the door finally creaks open completely.

"Jesus, Lex, take a chill pill."

"Maybe you shouldn't be sneaking into people's rooms when they might be sleeping," I retort, blinking past the watering of my eyes and glancing at my roommate while she, in turn, allows her own gaze to drift to the knife that is still clutched firmly in my hand. "I could've—"

"Stabbed me to death? Apparently so."

"It's not funny, Karen."

"I'm not laughing," My friend retorts, her blue eyes drifting back up to meet my own, and narrowing as though sensing something she does not like in their appearance. "Would you care to explain why you were about ready to knife me, then?"

"As I recall, you weren't too keen on identifying yourself—"

"Probably because I imagined you would think it might've been me over say your run of the mill armed robber."

Unable to think of anything to say that would not come across as unnecessarily harsh, I settle instead for perching upon the edge of my bed so that I can stow the knife securely in its resting place once more, the soft thud that the drawer makes as it closes causing me to jump as though I had never thought it would be possible to hear. My nerves feel raw—jagged, as though one wrong move will send them shattering into about a million pieces. And although I cannot really explain why, Karen seems to sense this, the sensation of the mattress dipping a bit beneath her weight as she comes to sit beside me forcing me to meet her gaze head-on even in spite of how much I really don't want to.

"It was that dream again, wasn't it?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, it was," I grudgingly admit, once again averting my eyes to where my fingers are twisting idly back and forth in my lap. "And I—I really wasn't thinking it was you, trying to get in."

"Well I was only trying to because you were nearly screaming," Karen admits, her confession causing me to flush, though the pressure of her hand reaching for, and securing one of my own is at least somewhat reassuring. "Have you—have you ever thought of getting help with them? The dreams, I mean."

"No. I'm not all that eager to have people thinking I'm losing it, you know."

"If they really know you, they've probably already come to that conclusion, don't you think?"

"Ha-ha," I gripe, managing a faint smile more for Karen's benefit than my own, and leaning towards her so that I can nudge her shoulder in what I hope comes through as an appreciative gesture, "I just—I don't feel like I can, you know? Not when there are people out there with—with real problems—"

"This seems like a pretty 'real' problem to me."

"Does it? When you compare it to the literal hundreds of soldiers that have PTSD, or the trauma people experience after growing up with abuse?"

"Funnily enough, I think being shot at, and watching someone you love die right in front of you might just qualify you for a PTSD diagnosis," Karen persists, her concern apparent as she shifts just a bit upon the edge of the bed so that she is facing me more directly. "You're a doctor, Alexis, you know I'm right."

Once again rendered speechless by my friend's argument, I remove my hand from her grasp as gently as I can so that I might stand once more, my arms folding across my chest as though in an effort to keep warm. In spite of the fact that I know without a doubt I will regret not at least trying to garner more sleep before heading to work in the morning, something in me is all but petrified to let my head hit the pillow again. And so, I do the only thing I can think of to do that will hopefully distract both my own unruly thoughts, and Karen's concern is to head towards the bedroom door and back into the den, only pausing for long enough to catch my roommate's eye before making an offer that I sincerely hope she will not refuse.

"You know, they say late night television is an awful lot like therapy for some. Care to test the theory?"

Fortunately for me, Karen only gives a single, exasperated laugh before rising to her own feet, and following me from the room…

…

"Wow. You look like crap."

"Just what every girl wants to hear," I respond, managing a smile for Andrew's benefit later on at work, and ducking my head down to scribble an additional note on the patient file I had been investigating just moments before his arrival at my side, "I thought you weren't working today, anyway."

"Got called in last minute," Andrew supplies, his sigh seeming to indicate that this turn of events was about the furthest from what he might have desired, "Shame, too, since I had a date set up for breakfast."

"A date for breakfast? Or one that never left from the night before?"

"Both?"

"I might have guessed."

"Well it's not as if it really matters now, is it?" Andrew gripes, only the slight twinkle in his eyes belying the fact that he is acting for all intents and purposes happy to be exactly where we are. "Any idea how many more they've got coming in?"

"Not a clue. Must be something big though if they called you in as well."

"And they haven't told you?"

"No," I reply, lifting a brow, and regarding him with a skeptical expression for a moment before speaking further, "Why would they?"

"They like you better."

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

"They do!" Andrew presses, leaning against the wall nearby, and stuffing both hands into the pockets of his lab coat with an expression not that far from petulant displeasure. "You've been here longer, you've got an almost instant rapport with any patient that walks through those doors—"

"And I've lost just as many patients as I've been able to save, remember?" I cut in, eager to stop Andrew's almost predictable, yet completely unnecessary self-doubt before he could gather much steam. "You've got to stop doubting yourself like this, or it may well lead to worse outcomes than you might've had otherwise."

"Exactly when do you think I'm going to start believing that little line of yours?"

"No idea. But I'll continue to repeat it until you do."

I can tell, just by the slight hardening in Andrew's expression that he is prepared to fight back. To try and give me some reason not to believe in him as fiercely as I do. But before he can say anything to the contrary, we both find ourselves immediately distracted by the sound of pounding feet heading our way, and a voice calling out not long after which rather effectively drives all thought of self-doubt from our minds.

"Hanson—Rawlins—they need you in the ED."

Whatever doubts my friend may have had about his skill as a physician, we both knew that in order to do what needed to be done, all of that must be forgotten…

…

The chaos that has somehow managed to take over the Emergency Department seems to have forced Andrew and I to go our separate ways, the only proof I have that he hasn't disappeared entirely being the occasional brief glimpse we get of one another in between patient rooms. Mercifully, as a result of that very chaos, I find that my exhaustion brought about from poor sleep the night before is all but forgotten, the adrenaline brought about by the constant stream of patients with untold variations in the severity of their injuries working to keep my body active like caffeine never could. Of course, a part of me regrets feeling just a bit eager to have this scenario unfold, particularly as I know full well that some of these poor people will likely not see the end of the day.

But a still greater part of me, in spite of how it might seem almost cruel, is all but thankful that I have enough to do to keep me well and truly distracted from the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Cringing in the wake of such a thought, I force myself to move on to the next patient's bed on the list I have secured to the clipboard clutched in my hands, my eyes widening as I pull back the curtain that is screening and find that I am looking upon a startlingly familiar face.

"I—I'm Doctor Hanson," I begin, mentally shaking myself as I register the slight upturn of my patient's brow, and step just a bit further into the room so that I can tug the curtain back into its proper place behind me. "And you are—"

"Dallas Ackard," My patient supplies, wincing a bit as the act of attempting to shift himself just a bit further up against the headboard of the hospital bed clearly pulls at the wound he is trying so valiantly to conceal with one hand, "And if you have other patients that need you more, you should tend to them first."

"They're being taken care of as well. Why don't you let me take a look at that gunshot you've been trying to hide?"

"Thought you wouldn't notice."

"Nice try. I'm a doctor, remember?" I quip, setting the clipboard on a nearby table, and moving forward so that I can grant myself better access to my patient's injury, which he is still trying to conceal with one hand. "Mister Ackard—"

"Dallas."

"Dallas. Can you remove your hand, please?"

With some small show of reluctance, Dallas does finally comply with my request, his arm lifting out of the way so that I can stoop just a bit and move one hand forward to lift at the shirt that is covering the wound from view. I am not blind to the wince that my action provokes, seeing as I am well aware that the blood that has seeped into the fabric has started to congeal to the skin beneath. And in an effort to distract the man from what might very well be a painful ordeal, I pause in the act of lifting the shirt from his abdomen, my eyes meeting his for a moment before I endeavor to speak again.

"How exactly did you come by this?"

"Work."

"Work," I repeat, shaking my head in resignation as I redirect my attention to the matter at hand, and succeed in peeling the shirt up to Dallas's midsection and realize that my field of vision will be seriously limited unless he removes the shirt completely, "Is that all the answer I'm going to get, then?"

"What I do is highly confidential, ma'am."

"I think I know how to keep a secret."

"Not one like this."

"Oh? Never heard of HIPAA, then?" I inquire, one corner of my mouth lifting in obvious amusement as I stand back and switch tactics so quickly that Dallas appears, at least momentarily, caught off guard. "Shirt off, please."

"I—what?"

"Shirt off. I need to see the gravity of the wound, and to do that, I need your entire abdomen free of obstruction."

"Well, I have to say, I've had a woman work harder than that to get my shirt off," Dallas jokes, the eye-roll that he earns as a result causing him to release a singular snort of amusement before complying with my request once again, and gingerly lifting the shirt from his frame before tossing it aside. "There. Look all you want to."

Resisting the urge to laugh, I once again divert my attention to examining the man's wound more directly, the slow nature of the blood that still seeps from the hole in his stomach giving me every reason to believe that either the injury is not as serious as it appears, or the bullet is still lodged inside the man's body, staunching the flow of the liquid that might otherwise kill him. Slowly, I allow my finger to prod at the edges of the injury, seeking the sensation of something solid to indicate that the latter of the two scenarios has transpired—and in spite of the slight hiss of pain that my act provokes, I find myself suddenly relieved as I realize that I cannot discern anything underneath the man's skin aside from muscle and fatty tissue, as it is supposed to be.

"We should get you to X-ray to be sure, but I think you're only in need of a few stitches," I report, straightening once again to my full height, and blinking quickly as I realize the act has brought me far closer to Dallas's face than I might have predicted. "Did you—did you happen to just get grazed by the bullet, then?"

"No."

"No?"

"No," Dallas confirms, something akin to a smirk crossing his features as he leans back just a bit until his full weight rests upon both palms that have flattened against the sheet, so that his chest is on full display, "Took it out myself."

"You what!"

"You heard me."

"Do you have any idea how—"

"How risky it was? Yes. But seeing as the bullet had only managed to get just beneath my skin—"

"You wouldn't know that for sure unless you had imaging done!" I exclaim, swatting my patient's hand as he once again reaches down as though desiring to prod at the wound himself. "You definitely need that X-ray now, to make sure you haven't done excess damage."

"Oh, and I suppose you're going to tie me up and force me to go?"

"If I have to."

The grin that Dallas gives me in response to my remark seems to rather easily cause my frustration and amusement to fight against each other, the outcome of such a thing bringing a reluctant half-smile to my lips even in the face of the fact that I really would like nothing more than to force him to consent to the imaging I know needs to be done to ensure no bullet fragments have been left behind. Before I can make any further attempts at pleading with him, however, I find that I am saved the trouble, the familiar quality of the voice that rises to speak over my own causing me to freeze on instinct, while my cheeks burn read at the apparent humor in its tone.

"And here I thought I was the only one you would try and charm into doing what you wanted."

"So he works for you, then?" I inquire, silently willing my voice to remain steady, even as I force myself to keep examining my patient's wound so that I might have an excuse to avoid looking at the man I know is looking rather fervently at me. "He's been surprisingly lax in explanation about what brought him here."

"Then he's followed his instructions to the letter."

"Would you change your mind to know he had risked doing himself further harm by removing a bullet on his own prior to seeking medical treatment?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Why am I not surprised?" I begin, backing away from Dallas, and choosing to rifle through the bedside table's topmost drawer in search of some temporary bandages that will allow his wound to be covered until it can be determined if he needs further prodding, or a few simple stitches before heading on his way. "I don't suppose you'd care whether or not he got himself killed by attempting to play the role of physician, himself?"

"You know damn well that I would, Alexis."

"Forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced."

In spite of how I might have expected my retort to provoke some sort of response, I find that I am entirely unprepared for the suddenness of a strong grip seizing hold of my forearm, spinning me around until I am brought face to face with the very features I have been trying so hard to ignore. I cannot explain it—how my frustration and exhaustion from the night prior have suddenly resurfaced, thus causing me to level a rather impressive glare up at the man who has now succeeded in pinning me such that my back rests against the wall, all while I am simultaneously forced to acknowledge a sardonic laugh from the man I have so recently been treating—but regardless of whether my actions make any sense or not, I cannot help but try to wrench myself free from the newcomer's grasp, regardless, even though my efforts rather predictably prove to be futile within a manner of seconds.

"Let go of me, Billy."

"No."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to treat an apparent friend of yours—"

"He can wait a moment," Billy insists, his fingers still maintaining their vice-like hold upon my forearm in spite of my attempts to pull away. "What is all of this about?"

"What is all of what about?"

"This! You should know as well as anyone that Ackard's injury is minor."

"We don't know that," I protest, fully prepared to launch into the litany I had just been about to give the patient in question, only to find the attempt cut off by Billy's voice rising over my own to drown me out.

"You do. You knew it almost as soon as you saw the wound."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did. Or you would have been rushing him to X-ray far faster than I could have arrived here, myself," Billy states, dark eyes searching my own with such an intensity that I am almost tempted to look away, but for the lingering sense of affronted pride that refuses to permit me to even blink. "What is this about?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"Will you please let me go?"

Startled, both by the sudden wavering that has become so apparent in my words, and by the immediacy with which Billy relinquishes his hold on me, I find that I am entirely powerless to stop the sudden tremor that rolls through me as lack of sleep appears to have finally made itself known. I can tell that such an instant of weakness has not gone unnoticed, the way in which Billy's eyes almost instantly darken causing me to flinch as I attempt, albeit half-heartedly, to return to the task at hand. Somehow, I cannot bear the thought of him discovering the truth behind what has made me so unbelievably out of sorts—and so, with nothing left to do but continue to care for my patient as though Billy had never interrupted us in the first place, I set about the task of securing the temporary bandage to his abdomen, while simultaneously attempting to conceal just how much my hands have begun to tremble as I work.

"Alexis—"

"I need to finish this," I interrupt, aware of how Dallas is still looking back and forth between Billy and myself, as though we are the most entertaining thing he has witnessed in a very long time, and choosing to ignore it in favor of risking a glance back towards Billy in an effort to temper the slight sting that my tone might provide. "I promise, I'll see about taking a break so that we can talk after I get him off to X-ray."

"You're still insisting on that, then?" Dallas asks, another of his roguish smiles heading my way, though it has little effect on the answering nod that I give him in return. For his part, he seems to have rather fortunately resigned himself to the prescribed treatment plan, though I am not unaware of how his gaze flicks, for a moment, towards Billy, as though hoping he might disagree. For one split second, I brace myself, fully expecting that the man now standing behind me will voice his disapproval—that he will veto my decision, and the both of them will venture on their way regardless of my pleading, or any demands I might make. But in spite of my very worst expectations, I find that Dallas remains resolutely in place, thus allowing me to finish securing the bandage against his skin before I am straightening once more, and glancing towards Billy from the corner of my eye.

"I'll see about having a nurse take you down, then."

"You aren't going to take me yourself?"

"I'm afraid not, Mister Ackard," I reply, the sudden switch to formality causing a frown to form upon my patient's features, even as a subsequent smirk alights upon Billy's features in tandem.

"I have a feeling your boss would consider that to be akin to me going back on a promise, and we both know how he can be when someone does that…"

…


	6. Curve Ball

After I am assured that my patient has been successfully taken away to x-ray, I find myself following in Billy's wake as he peruses the nearby halls for an open room where we won't be easily disturbed. A part of me, of course, has to admit that I really ought to have seen this coming, particularly given the almost eerie intuition that he seems to possess when it comes to my moods and their potential causes. But even that realization is not entirely enough to stop me from flinching almost as soon as Billy has escorted me into an empty room at last, his eyes darker than I have seen them in quite a while as he shuts the door behind us and starts to speak.

"So—you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to drag it out of you bit by bit?"

"Is that a threat, Russo?"

"Don't screw with me, Lex. You know what I'm asking, and you know why I'm asking it," Billy states, his tone giving me every reason to believe that if I chose not to come clean, I will likely be spending the remainder of my day in this one, small, room. The prospect does not entirely frighten me, of course, seeing as I know full well that if we persist in being as busy as we are, someone will come looking for me sooner or later, and I will be forced to abandon my current companion for the sake of a hard day's work. Even so, though, I am not entirely willing to spend a potentially lengthy period of time alone in a room with Billy Russo if he is as fired up as his expression seems to indicate, a small shiver lancing through me before I can stop it while I simultaneously attempt to gather the wherewithal to speak.

"I—I've been having this dream," I begin, watching Billy carefully for any sign of a poor reaction that might signify I would be wiser to change course, "And it's just starting to get to me, that's all."

"What dream?"

"Billy—"

"What dream?" Billy persists, his eyes softening just a bit as he realizes the effort that even such a small admission has cost me, "Come on, Lex. You know you can tell me anything."

"I know that, Billy, I just—I'm not sure I want to."

"Why not?"

"You of all people should know the reason why."

Wrinkles mar Billy's brow for a moment in light of my assertion, his eyes searching my face as though he feels like he may have caught me in a lie. For a moment—only a moment—my mind strays back to my impromptu visit with David—to the elusive name he had given me. But almost as quickly as the memory resurfaces, I am forcing it aside, my teeth darting out to worry at my lower lip for a moment as I silently pray for my companion to have missed the minute shift in my features that such a thought almost certainly has provoked. I can't explain it, of course. The instinctive pull I feel to refuse to give Billy that little bit of information, even though I somehow know that he of all people might be able to shed some light on a topic that seems all but determined to remain in the dark.

Still, some sort of inner instinct seems all but determined that I remain silent on that particular matter, and so I opt for redirecting my thoughts back to the dreams that have plagued me for a few nights in a row, now, my eyes meeting Billy's once again, albeit a bit reluctantly, as I realize he is preparing to reply.

"This is about Nathan, isn't it?"

"How very perceptive of you."

"You know damned well he wouldn't want to see you like this," Billy cautions, taking a seat on the sofa that is situated near the door to the room we occupy, and reaching out so that his hand can latch upon mine, and guide me to sit down beside him, "For that matter, I don't, either."

"Then stop looking."

"Alexis—"

"I'm—I'm sorry, Billy. I really am," I manage, a flush adorning my cheeks as the weight of his gaze rests fully upon me, and I am forced to come face to face with the almost childlike nature of my quips thus far, "I just—it seems so silly, compared to the stuff that everyone else has to deal with."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

Something in the way Billy is watching me, then, appears to be about as persuasive as a sort of truth serum, my cheeks once again burning as his expression shifts from one of expectancy to a more patient sort of concern. I cannot explain it—the almost instant sense of need I feel to come clean, and just be done with it all. And so, even in spite of my misgivings, I lean forward until my elbows rest upon my knees, my fingers carding through my hair for want of anything else to do as I finally begin to confess.

"The dream was about the—the day Nathan died."

"You never told me all that happened," Billy states, something not all that different from regret coloring his tone even as I realize he has simultaneously reached out to twine his fingers through my own, "I always wondered why that was."

"Because I never wanted to," I admit, squeezing his hand as though my life depends upon it, and trying unsuccessfully to tamp down on the quavering that takes root in my voice as I speak once more, "I never wanted to make you live through something like that when you'd already lived through enough as it is."

"He was one of my best friends, Lex."

"And he wouldn't have wanted you to see that any more than he wanted me to."

"Yet here we are," Billy quips, returning the squeeze of my hand, and then gently tugging me back on the sofa until I am situated with my back against its cushions, and my side secured tightly to his own, "And I think he'd want you to get this off your chest."

"It was almost exactly like what happened that day. We were all sitting around, joking, like always, and then it just—it just blew apart at the seams."

"How so?"

"You know how so, Billy!" I exclaim, freeing my hand from his grasp, and once again shoving my fingers through my hair as though that stands any chance of calming my edgy nerves, "I'm sorry, I just—I really don't want to have to relive this."

"Talking through it all might actually help, you know."

"And now you sound like my roommate."

"Well maybe your roommate is on the right track," Billy presses, his hand coming to rest, palm flat, upon my back, so that its warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my scrubs with relative ease, "Listen, Lex, you need to realize there are people around who actually want to help you."

"I do."

"Then why are you so damned reluctant to let them?"

There it is. The question of the hour, and the very one I cannot seem to answer, no matter how hard I try. It's not as though I've never opened up to anyone before—hell, one of Nathan's favorite pastimes was teasing me about exactly how much useless information I seemed willing to share with anyone who would be willing to listen. But for some reason, I cannot quite bring myself to come clean this particular time, a sigh escaping me as I permit myself to lean back against Billy's solid frame and manage a shrug before attempting to reply.

"I'm not—there are plenty who have seen worse than I have. Worse than I ever will," I begin, frowning even in spite of the sensation of Billy's arm winding around my shoulder as though he wishes to pull me closer than I already am, "And I don't want to burden them with—"

"You are not a burden, Alexis. You aren't now, and you never will be."

"You don't have to say that, you know."

"I'm not just saying it," Billy insists, reaching with his free hand so that he can use a finger to press against my chin until I am forced to meet his gaze head-on, "I mean it. You think you can trust me on that?"

"Would you accept a reluctant maybe to answer that question?"

"For now. But don't think you're getting out of it that easily—"

Believe me, Billy, I know I'm not," I state, dragging one hand through already tousled hair, and exhaling in a rush so that my whole body seems to slump against the back of the sofa, and Billy's frame beside me, "But regardless, I appreciate you letting up a bit."

"You think this is me letting up?"

"I sure as hell hope so."

The laugh that Billy gives me in response to my quip provokes a small smile from me in return, the sensation of my mouth tugging up just a bit at the corners doing more to soothe my ragged nerves than anything else had before it. And perhaps it is that very fact that gives me the courage to look Billy in the eye once again, instead of keeping my gaze resolutely fixed upon my knees, one brow lifting as I take note of how his expression has turned from concern to something entirely more like himself.

"You're pleased with yourself, aren't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh but I think you do," I assure him, my smile growing just a bit as the remark causes Billy's eyes to narrow for a split second, thus giving me only a moment's notice before I am fully ensnared in his embrace, and my spine lets out a muted pop of protest, "Hey, what the hell!"

"How's this for pleased with myself?" My would-be captor replies, his hold on me only tightening as I remain resolute in my attempts at squirming away. The next thing I know, Billy has hauled me into his lap, brown eyes dancing with mischief. But before I can manage to say, or do anything to rectify that situation, or at the very least even the odds just a little bit, the sound of the door to our sequestered little haven creaking open reaches my ears, causing me to pull away from Billy so quickly that I end up slipping out of his hold and onto the edge of the sofa's cushion instead.

"Wow—and they told me you had just slipped off for a quick break."

Andrew…

"I—I did. I was just—we were just leaving," I stammer, forcing myself to stand, and doing what I can to ignore the burning in my cheeks that comes about as a result of Andrew's persistent stare, "Where do you need me?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"Then I suppose you just enjoy interrupting people in mid-conversation on a regular basis," Billy retorts, standing in one fluid motion, and slipping his hands into his pants pockets before taking a few steps forward and effectively inserting himself between Andrew and I with relative ease. It would have taken a blind man to miss how the difference in their height gives Billy the unique ability to practically loom over Andrew, though for his part, my friend makes no gesture that indicates he intends to move back even an inch. And although some small part of me knows it to be incredibly foolhardy, I find myself moving forward until I stand between them, my eyes searching Billy's first as I try to ease the tension in any way I can.

"Billy that's not what he's doing."

"Sure looks that way to me."

"Yeah, well, it's not what you think," I press, one hand reaching out to press against Billy's chest in hopes of getting him to step back, even a little, "I do need to get back to work, you know."

"From where I'm standing, it seems like your friend had things pretty well handled without you."

"What gives you the right to dictate where Alexis goes, and when, pal?"

"I'm not your pal."

"You've got that right. It was a figure of speech."

"Alright, enough!" I interject, this time whirling to face Andrew, and holding out a hand when he attempts to move around me to get to Billy on his own, "Andrew, what the hell is this all about?"

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"And I am safe! Why can't you just trust me on that?"

"I do trust you, Lex. It's him I don't trust," Andrew admits, scowling in response to Billy's obvious scoff of disbelief, and yet surprisingly enough, yielding to the pressure of my hand against his upper arm, instead of pushing around me to get to his perceived adversary himself, "I don't want to see you getting hurt."

"If you think I would hurt her you really must be as dumb as you look."

"Billy—" I warn, risking a glance over my shoulder to give him what I hope is a sufficient enough look to persuade him to be quiet, at least for the moment, "I think you should go."

"Alexis—"

"Really. I'll be fine. And it seems like it won't be all that pleasant if you keep hanging around."

For a moment, my heart leaps into my throat as the suspicion that Billy has no intention of leaving me here, alone, for all intents and purposes with a man that he clearly does not trust. But just before I am prepared to force myself to attempt persuading him once again, he manages a curt nod, one of his hands coming to rest upon my shoulder for a moment to give it a small squeeze before he is brushing past Andrew and heading for the door.

"Hey, Alexis?" He begins, pausing with one hand on the doorknob, and turning back to glance over his shoulder at me with an expression that has me shivering just a bit even in spite of my desire to avoid it.

"Yeah?"

"I'll text you later, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure thing," I agree, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip once again, while Billy finally opens the door and disappears into the hallway beyond so that my attention can return in full to the man that still stands before me, "Care to tell me what the hell that was all about?"

"I told you. I want to keep you safe."

"That's not all of it and you know it, Andrew Rawlins. So are you going to tell me what the hell has you so antagonistic to a practical stranger, or do I have to drag it out of you by force?"

I find that I am prepared for almost anything, in that moment—anything from a verbal tirade of every last thing he wanted to say to the man that has now left the room in earnest and is likely out of the range of earshot, regardless, to a lecture on how stupid I was to leave when the ER is probably still swamped, just as it had been when I left it. But what I cannot expect is the sudden sensation of Andrew's hand latching onto my forearm with a grip that is surprisingly fierce, while he steps just a bit closer towards me and brushes a stray tendril of hair away from my face.

To say anything other than that I am beyond surprised by the sensation of his lips melding themselves against my own would have been a lie…

…

"You do realize that I am eventually going to grow up, right? Be in a relationship—get married? Have kids?"

"Not on my watch," Nathan teases, leaning over to nudge my shoulder with his own, and releasing a small snort of amusement as I retaliate with a harder nudge of my own, "Easy, killer! I speak the truth."

"And why, exactly, don't you want me to get married?" I inquire, one brow arching in obvious inquiry as my arms fold instinctively across my chest, "I'd have thought you'd want to get rid of me eventually."

"He doesn't want you to get married because if you do, there'll be no one left to take care of him in his old age."

"Shut up, Russo."

"No—no, I don't think I want to."

"Not even if I said please?" Nathan quips, chuckling a bit in response to Billy's rather predictable roll of the eyes, and reaching around me to curl his fingers around a muffin that sits in the tray on the table before us so that he can lob it at Billy with relative ease.

"Hey!"

"You deserved it."

"For what? Telling the truth?" Billy inquires, laughter apparent in his reply, even as he stoops to pick up the muffin from its place on the floor, and chucking it back towards my brother with a mischievous twinkle lighting his brown eyes, "That's rich."

"What's rich?"

"You, my friend. Only you."

Laughter rings out in the crispness of the spring air as a result of Billy's assertion, the sudden puff of air that is generated when he plops down on my other side causing me to jump even as I brush my shoulder against his own in a show of camaraderie, if nothing else. I do not miss the way my brother's eyes narrow almost as soon as I have done so, even though I chose to purposefully ignore it. Time and time again, he had warned me about his friend—Frank had, too, for that matter. But in spite of both of their suppositions and concerns, I was very firmly rooted in the fact that Billy Russo saw me as simply another friend.

I knew I would be a fool to think of our interactions as anything else.

Regardless of my feelings on the topic, however, I am not blind to how quickly Nathan loops an arm around my shoulder and tugs me back towards him, his free hand reaching out to ruffle my hair as he always does whenever I go silent on him. For as long as I can remember, it's been like this between us—Nate with his uncanny ability to read my moods, and me with my preference for silence when the antics dial up between him and his friends. But for some reason, this particular time I am not entirely willing to allow him to read me as easily as he usually does, my body squirming away from his so that I can stand and head towards the kitchen before I speak.

"Anybody want a beer?"

"Sure thing, sis."

"I'll take that action."

With such confirmation, I find myself rather gratefully turning my attention towards the refrigerator, the soft clinking of glass bottles against one another proving far more soothing than it had any right to be as I open the door, and lean inside to obtain the beverages. Cool, circulated air wafts against my face, providing some relief from the sudden flush that had taken over my cheeks as a result of my distracted thoughts. And, not for the first time, I find myself rather grateful for the brief moment of solitude, as long as it lasts, particularly seeing as it gives me just enough time to collect my thoughts before straightening, shutting the refrigerator door, and returning to the two men that I adore beyond all reason.

After all, I am well aware that whatever it is I think I am feeling for Billy Russo is better left untouched.

He is interested in other girls, not me…

…

Startled by the suddenness with which the memory washes over me, even in spite of my current situation, I find that I am frozen in place for a moment or two longer than I should be, my body caught in that awkward limbo between complete motionlessness, and pulling away from this unexpected onslaught with everything I have.

Doctor Andrew Rawlins is kissing me, and I am not entirely sure what to do with that…

Something in the way I am remaining stock-still seems to give Andrew pause not long after that thought crosses my mind, his brow furrowing in apparent concern as he pulls away but still maintains a hold upon my arm. I can feel it—how his fingers have tightened around my skin as though fearing that if he lets go, I will simply run away. And although the sensation does succeed in setting my nerves on edge, while my stomach clenches uneasily in tandem, I do somehow manage to force myself to remain in place, my teeth worrying at my lower lip for what feels like the millionth time as I peer up at him while he speaks.

"You okay, Lex? You kinda—disappeared on me, there—"

"I can't—I can't do this, Andrew."

"Can't do what?" He inquires, his facial features tightening as though he suspects what I am about to say before I even say it, though he seems determined to press his case, regardless, "You have to have known—"

"I have to have known what?"

"This! How I feel about you!"

"Andrew, you don't feel—you can't feel anything—" I stammer, some sort of instinct prompting me to attempt pulling away from Andrew, though I am not entirely successful, considering the grip he holds on my arm, and my own reluctance to do anything to overtly cause him pain, "We—how did this even come about? It doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense! Alexis, if you haven't noticed anything in the last few months, you're—"

"I'm what?"

"Blind. Or too wrapped up in your little 'friend', Russo, to pay attention. But trust me, the signs are there."

"Billy has nothing to do with this."

"Oh that prick has everything to do with this," Andrew insists, the vehemence in his tone surprising me even as it frightens me, "He's got you so wrapped up in his own lady-killer aura to know what's really good for you."

"He does not have a lady-killer aura."

"The fact that you're saying that tells me all I need to know."

Something in the nature of those words gives me the strength to recoil, then, freeing my hand from his grasp, and managing a few steps back in the process. I cannot explain it—why a man who I had long considered to be a friend has gone, in the blink of an eye, to appearing more akin to someone I barely know. But no matter what I may attempt to conjure in terms of a possible explanation, I continue to come up blank, my frustration only growing as Andrew uses my silence as leave for further speech.

"Alexis, I'm only trying to protect you. I don't want to see you getting hurt."

"From where I'm standing, it seems I already have been hurt."

"Lex—"

"Stop, Andrew," I interject, silently cursing how my voice seems to break over the words, and yet choosing to press on, regardless, "I need to get back to work."

"Alexis—"

"Go, Andrew. I'll be right behind you."

Mercifully, my companion seems to gather that I have no desire for further discussion of the matter, the last glance he gives me before slipping out of the door and into the hallway beyond nothing short of heart-wrenching. Already, I feel as though I should go after him—that I should try and make this right. And yet, in spite of that nagging feeling, I force myself to step through the doorway and head off in the opposite direction, my posture stiffening as I do whatever I can to reorganize my thoughts towards something more productive than unbelievable shock.

Of course I really cannot be surprised when it fails…

…


	7. Concessions

The remainder of the shift seems to pass without incident, and I find that it is surprisingly simple to avoid Andrew for the most part, even in spite of, or perhaps because of the fact that the Emergency Department is still packed with cases needing attention. Before I know it, I am finishing the last of my own notes, and entering them into the hospital portal, gathering my things from my locker, and heading out to the nearby parking garage underneath a cover of light rain. And although it does not take very long for my hair and jacket to become absolutely drenched, I cannot entirely bring myself to complain, the sound of my shoes slapping against wet pavement rooting me in the present, even though some small part of me would love nothing more than to dwell on all that had just transpired.

Though it had been hours since the event itself, I can still feel Andrew's lips on my own as though he were standing right in front of me.

Why had he done it? The reason, so he claimed, should have been obvious, but even with as much as I had gone over our previous interactions again and again in my head, I could not figure it out. Was I really that oblivious to anything that was not a product of my own thoughts?

Had I really been that self-absorbed?

Unable to answer that question, no matter how hard I try, I find that I am forcing myself to redirect my attention to the path ahead, my shoulders hunching just a bit as though I really believe it will prevent the rain from soaking my clothing still further. Newly focused, I find that it does not take me as long as I had initially dreaded to step beneath the shelter of the concrete parking structure, a small shiver passing over my frame as I head to the stairwell, and wrench open the door to climb to level three. The smell of the place causes me to wrinkle my nose, one hand curling into the sleeve of my jacket so that I can bring the fabric up to shield my nose and mouth. And, not for the first time I am forced to come to the conclusion that I really do need to find a better place to park.

Some place that is not a block away from where I work…

Distracted by such a thought, and by musings over how exactly I am to come up with the money to do such a thing, I am rendered completely unaware of my surroundings, the sound of muted footfalls going unnoticed until a raw voice reaches my ears and I just barely manage to suppress a scream.

"Distraction like this is a sure way to get yourself killed."

"Says the man who lurks in a parking structure to accost a defenseless woman," I retort, allowing the man who has just appeared at my side to steer me away from the stairwell, and towards one of the pillars that seems to effectively shield our position with a sizeable shadow against the wall, "What is it?"

"You were being followed."

"By you?"

"By someone else. Stocky. Grey jacket, and hood," The man who has so effectively interrupted my trek for home replies, averting his eyes from my features in favor of glancing around our relatively deserted little hideout to ensure that the aforementioned man had not appeared in the meantime, "Strikes me as odd that someone doing what you do can be so unobservant."

"Doing what I do?"

"Looking into the name I gave you the last time we met doesn't ring a bell?"

"Except that I haven't really had the time, yet," I correct, aware of my companion's apparent consternation, and doing what I can to avoid letting it render me any more apprehensive than I am, already, "Are you certain he was following me?"

"There was no one else on the street, Alexis."

"Maybe he was just walking in the same direction as I was?"

"Come on, you and I both know you're too smart to really believe that," David scoffs, both hands jamming into his own jacket pockets while he backs away from me so that we can resume the trek towards the stairwell unimpeded, "What else have you been up to?"

"Nothing."

"You're sure? Because from where I'm sitting, only someone who's managed to piss someone off a great deal can manage earning a tail for something they claim they don't remember."

"I'm as sure as I can be," I remark, my mind unwittingly straying back to what had happened at the hospital just hours before, although I do what I can to keep my expression neutral, in hopes that the fact that I am still haunted by what transpired does not get out in the open, "Maybe a disgruntled patient—"

"Have you made it a habit of letting people die on you, then?"

"Hardly. But mistakes do happen."

"This doesn't feel like that, though," David counters, risking one final glance around the parking structure's ground floor, before allowing me to hold the door to the stairwell open so that we can step through and begin to climb to the second floor, "Those sorts of people that act out of grief are generally itching for their target to notice them."

"And this man was silent."

"Yes."

"Then I'm not really sure what else we can gather from it," I state, aware that David is glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as we walk side by side on the stairs, and yet choosing to keep my attention focused ahead of me, regardless, "I don't think we need to worry about it."

"Speak for yourself."

"He didn't see you—"

"And I'm not allowed to be concerned for a friend?"

"I wasn't aware you thought of me that way."

"Sure, Hanson. Play the tough loner card," David jokes, bumping his arm against my own as we clear the landing on the second floor and begin the trek up the stairs to the third, "I don't buy it."

"I never really thought you would."

"Then why bother?"

"Old habits die hard?" I begin, a smile toying at the corner of my mouth for a moment as I register my companion's barely masked chuckle that he clearly would prefer to hide, "Hey, it's the explanation that works."

"Says you."

"Because it's the truth."

In lieu of a reply, David seems content to settle for climbing the remainder of the stairs to the third floor in silence, something that I find I am almost regretting as it gives my mind time to trek back to work, and all that had gone on there. I really don't want to spend any more time thinking about it than I already have, and in fact I am already looking forward to the moment when I can clamber into my pajamas with a full glass of wine in hand to dull the recollections.

Of course even that small moment's distraction renders me oblivious to the fact that we have already reached the floor of the garage where I have parked my car, and that I am making my way to the fourth floor as though nothing is wrong with that picture. I can tell, even from a distance, that such an action has only increased his suspicion that I am hiding something, and although I really do not want to acknowledge it, I force myself to head back towards him, my eyes meeting his as I clear the landing and risk speaking before he has the chance.

"Sorry—got sucked into replaying a few of today's more detailed cases."

"Sure you did."

I can tell that he does not believe me, though I would have been lying if I ever endeavored to presume that he would. But before he can question me at all about my momentary lapse, I find the sudden willpower to speak once again, this time in an effort to distract my companion with a completely different topic of conversation.

"How are you going to get out of here?"

"The same way I came in," David replies, watching me with a look that suggests he is almost tempted to divert the conversation back to its original topic—but mercifully, at least from my own perspective, he chooses not to, his shoulders shrugging so minutely that I might have missed it but for the fact that I am paying close attention to his actions to begin with, "Don't worry about me, Hanson. I'll be fine."

"I could drive you—"

"No you couldn't. You don't know where I live."

Sensing that such a revelation was the entire point behind his statement to begin with, I settle for simply nodding my agreement, while simultaneously closing the distance between myself, and my car, one hand reaching into my purse for my keys before I am turning back to where David stands behind me, my brow furrowing for a moment before I speak.

"You're sure you'll be alright?"

"Always am. Are you sure you can make it to your place without earning yourself another tail?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out."

Aware that David is laughing softly at my remark, I clamber into the car and place the key in the ignition, only to find that as I am turning back to give David a final wave, he has already disappeared.

Typical…

…

Thankfully traffic is rather light on the drive back to my apartment, and before long, I find myself propped up on the sofa in my pajamas, with a wine glass in hand, my head buzzing just a bit as I realize with a faint grin that I might just have over-imbibed.

Oops?

Whatever my mental clarity may or may not signify, however, I would be a fool to deny that the slight buzz is a welcome change from the whirlwind that plagued my thoughts prior to its inception, a sudden and unexpected sense of relaxation stealing over me as I sink back against the cushions and allow myself a moment or two to close my eyes. The soft murmur of whatever late night television show provides an interesting distraction, keeping me just on the edge of succumbing to sleep. But of course, before I can fully commit to doing exactly that, a harsh chirping reaches my ears, causing me to jolt upright and glance down at the table before the sofa where my phone rests, its screen lighting up and causing me to sigh in what I can only describe as exasperation.

So much for spending the evening uninterrupted.

With a groan, I pick up the device, my eyes widening as I realize that the name scrolling across the screen is Billy's…

"Hey," I manage almost as soon as I connect the call, swallowing another sip of wine, and furrowing my brow as I hope I don't come across as absolutely smashed, "What's—is something wrong?"

"Not at all. Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

"That I said I would text you," Billy prods, amusement evident in his tone even though I have not a clue whether or not his expression matches his words, "God, Lex, I never took you for the senile type."

"I'm not senile. You said you would text, not call, you know."

"Well isn't someone grumpy—"

"Am not," I retort, placing the glass of wine I am holding on the table, and slumping back against the sofa cushions for a moment before going on, "And before you ask about earlier, I'm fine."

"Mind if I check on that assertion myself?"

"I—Billy, I'm in my pajamas already."

"I have a pizza. Beer too," He insists, something about the way he says the words causing my eyes to narrow as I stand from the sofa and glance towards the apartment door.

"You're already outside my door, aren't you?"

"Why don't you open it and find out?"

With a sigh that spoke of both resignation and amusement, I end the call and place my phone back on the sofa before padding over to the door, the movements of my fingers as they shift the padlock carrying an almost eager quality even in the face of my slight embarrassment. From the looks of things, Billy Russo is actually on the other side of the door, and here I stand, makeup off, hair in an untidy knot at the base of my neck, in pajamas—

I suppose it's a good thing I've been overindulging in wine, otherwise I might just lose my nerve.

Wrenching open the door, however, I find that all false bravado rather effectively deserts me all at once, my eyes widening as I realize that Billy truly is standing before me, in the flesh, a box of pizza in one hand and a six-pack in the other. Though I cannot immediately summon the wherewithal to speak, I am aware enough of the way in which he allows his gaze to flick over what seems to be every last facet of my appearance, my cheeks flushing just a bit in response as I step back, and simultaneously reach for the six pack to assist him inasmuch as I can. His gaze still lingers on my face for a moment, before he is moving through the hall and setting the pizza on top of the table next to my phone, and I am given the liberty of shutting the door and locking it before moving to follow him with beer in hand.

Of course almost as soon as he realizes I am approaching, he spares a glance towards the television, one brow quirking as he takes a seat without preamble, and lifts the pizza box lid in the same fluid motion.

"CSI? Seriously?"

"What? It's a good show!"

"Yeah, if you're a nerd—"

"This nerd just happens to enjoy it. I suppose, if you hate it that much, I could just keep the pizza and beer, and kick you out."

"I'd like to see you try."

Unable to resist the urge to laugh, I motion with the hand that is not holding the beer for Billy to scoot over so I might sit down as well; the connection of his fingers with my own as he takes the beer to place it on the table causing my heart to constrict within my chest. For a moment, I am almost grateful that he is entirely preoccupied with taking the first slice, the absence of his intent observation giving me enough time to compose myself before I realize he is reaching for a beer and handing it my way.

"I—I actually have some wine—"

"Beer goes better with pizza though," Billy assures me, another lopsided grin taking over his features as he persists in pushing the beverage towards me, brown eyes sparking with something akin to mirth, "Come on, Lex, you know I'm right."

"Fine, Mister Pushy. Give it here."

"That's what I thought you'd say."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass sometimes?" I inquire, taking the beer, and giving the lid a twist until I hear the telltale whoosh of air that signifies the bottle has opened. Almost in tandem, a short burst of laughter escapes from where Billy is now lounging beside me, the sound far more comforting than it has any right to be.

I wish I could simply blame the wine for my reaction to him, but I can't…

"You never seem to mind," Billy quips, sending me a devilish grin, and leaning back against the back of the sofa so that his shoulder brushes against my own, "Did you give any thought to what we discussed earlier?"

There it is—the very question I was hoping he would not ask, and yet, were I being honest with myself, the one that I had always known he would. I can tell, just from his expression, that he will not accept anything other than an honest answer. And even though I really wish that I could come up with some way of changing the topic, I know that I cannot, a frown creasing my brow as I inhale as deeply as I can before my reply comes out in a rush.

"No, Billy, I didn't. There wasn't enough time."

"Well we can make time right now, then."

"Billy—"

"You're not getting out of this, Lex, so don't even try. I know a guy."

"Several 'guys' work under you, you know."

"Ha ha, smartass," Billy retorts around the last of the piece of pizza he had selected, swallowing and reaching forward to snag my beer so that he can take a sip before going on, "I'm serious. I know a guy that talks to some of the vets in the city, and he'd be happy to help you."

"I'm not a vet."

"Doesn't matter. He'd help as a personal favor to both me, and your brother."

"I—he knew Nathan?" I stammer, silently cursing the tremor that takes hold of my voice, and averting my gaze to the pizza box on the table before us, "Was he—was he in your unit?"

"Something like that."

"You're not going to give me anything more specific?"

"You don't want the details, trust me," Billy advises, leaning forward to reach for another piece of pizza, and inclining a brow as I shake my head when he offers it to me, first, "You're not eating tonight?"

"Not hungry," I reply, shifting my position on the sofa so that I face my guest more directly, and somehow finding myself capable of ignoring the way in which my knee gently brushes against Billy's thigh in favor of pressing him for as many details as he is willing to give regarding this 'friend' he believes will help, "You're sure he'd be willing to do this?"

"Absolutely."

"Even if I still don't think what I'm dealing with is comparable to what you all saw every day overseas?"

"Even then," Billy confirms, fixing me with an earnest stare as though trying to search my features for any hints of duplicity, "Lex, I think you really should give this a try."

"You really think so?"

"I do. Worst thing that can happen is you make a new friend, right?"

Unable to resist the urge to laugh in the face of Billy's remark, I force a nod, and a reluctant smile, one hand reaching out to nudge against his shoulder as his own laughter joins with my own. Once again, I find that I am stunned with the reality of exactly how easy it is for him to persuade me to do what he wants, and although I know that I really should attempt to put up more of a fight, I know that in this particular moment, I am definitely not capable of such a feat.

"Right."

"See? Was that so hard?"

"Don't press your luck, Russo."

"Where's your roommate?"

"Why, afraid you'll need backup?" I quip, dodging out of the way of Billy's retaliatory swat towards my shoulder, and scooting back as far as I can until I bump against the arm of the sofa, "What? It's a valid question."

"I tend to disagree, but I'll allow it for now."

"Gee, thanks."

"Anytime," Billy states, once again giving me a genuine grin, before returning his attention to the piece of pizza clutched in one hand, "Seriously, though, your roommate isn't going to come bursting in on us at any moment, is she?"

"Nope. Karen is visiting some cousins overnight. Why?"

"My presence here might invite unwanted questions."

"She already knows about you, Billy," I counter, aware of the way in which he suddenly tenses, as though what I have disclosed is the worst case scenario, "She knows I was at your apartment, for starters."

"What else does she know?"

"Listen—"

"What else does she know, Alexis?" Billy presses, the intensity of his expression startling me as he simultaneously shifts to grab my hand in his own. His grip is not painful—not really, though I would be a fool to pretend I did not sense the possibility that it could turn that way in just a fraction of a second. And although some small part of me is well aware that he is only trying to keep himself—keep the both of us—safe, I cannot help but wonder.

What the hell has made him so damned hyper-vigilant?

"She just—she knows you're a friend of the family, and she knows you were in the service," I confess, my gaze flicking to Billy's hand as it still holds mine, while my teeth come out to worry at my lower lip for a moment before I press on, "That's all, Billy, I promise."

"Okay."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Something in those last two words seem to indicate relief, at least from my own perspective, the pressure of Billy's hand on mine letting up just a bit, though it doesn't entirely slip away. Once again, I am staring—unable to look away at Billy's hand and fingers as they have threaded through my own. But even though I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, watching as I seem all but immovable, I cannot persuade myself to look away, the only thing stopping me from remaining motionless being the sensation of fingertips running a haphazard path along the skin of my cheek, my eyes finally tearing away from our entwined hands to glance up at Billy directly.

"You tired?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, something like that," I agree, my cheeks turning a bright shade of scarlet as I gently extract my hand from Billy's, and move to stand from the sofa, "But I'm more than capable of making some coffee."

"No work tomorrow?"

"Nope."

"So you wouldn't mind an all-nighter watching old movies?" Billy inquires, one brow quirking up as he watches me fiddling with the coffee pot, a smile toying with my lips as I utter the reply that he already knows is coming.

"Not at all. I could use a little distraction."

"Distraction from what? Meeting your would-be therapist?"

"No," I retort, laughing in spite of myself at the obvious jest intended in the quip, and rearranging the coffee pot such that when I press the power button, it emits a cheerful beep and starts brewing away, "Are you done with the pizza?"

"For now," Billy confirms, shutting the lid on the box, and moving to stand so that he can hand it my way, only to find that I am waving him off and stooping to pick it up myself, "But don't think you're getting out of telling me why you need a distraction."

"Everyone needs a distraction, Billy," I begin, moving towards the refrigerator, and stowing the pizza inside, before heading back towards the sofa, and noticing he has already grabbed my remote and changed the channel to the local station that airs black and white movies all night long.

"And most times, absolutely no one ever wants to share the reason why."

If I thought his reaction to my confession about the dream that keeps plaguing me was bad, I can only imagine what he would do if he learned of exactly what happened between Andrew and I just hours earlier…

…


	8. Seeking Answers

I wake up some unknown amount of time later, my cheek squashed against the arm of the sofa, while my arm dangles haphazardly over the side. Almost immediately, I become aware of the strange sensation of being only partially balanced, as though I could tip over the edge without a seconds notice—but just as quickly, when I attempt to scoot backward, I discover that my path is blocked by a solid sort of warmth that emits a soft grunt in response to my abrupt movement.

Billy.

Reality washes over me far quicker than I could have anticipated, some sort of innate instinct pushing me to try and right myself from my precarious position even in spite of the risk of waking my companion in the process. Of course, my efforts do not exactly go as planned, the slightest movement to push myself into an upright position only causing me to topple off of the sofa's edge and land on the floor with a muted thud.

"Ow—"

From my vantage point on the floor, I am able to see that even the noise of my falling off the sofa is not enough to wake Billy, the soft sound of a snore causing me to smile as I remain where I am, for a moment, in favor of watching him sleep. For the second time, I am stunned by exactly how peaceful he appears now, when compared to the ever present aura of watchfulness while awake. But before I can spend too much time contemplating that particular facet of reality, I find that Billy is stirring once again, his brow scrunching up a bit, just before he stretches with a muted groan and opens his eyes.

"What—Lex, what the hell are you doing on the floor?"

"Someone was hogging the couch."

"Shit. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I was joking."

A snort of laughter escapes Billy in response to my admission while he simultaneously elects to sit erect himself, both hands coming to rub at his face, and consequently causing part of his normally well-kept hair to fall over his brow. I am almost tempted to sit there in silence, watching him, particularly as he spends an extra moment or two with his hands over his face, the heels of his palms rubbing at his eyes. But of course, reality has other ideas, my head turning just a bit to glance at the clock on the wall so that my companion will not catch me staring as soon as his hands come to rest upon his knees.

"You're sure I wasn't hogging the couch?"

"Definitely," I reply, finally succeeding in forcing myself to my feet, and wincing as the after-effect of sitting awkwardly on the flooring makes itself known through the spasm that travels from my feet to the base of my spine, "Want some coffee or anything?"

"Not right now. What I could really go for is sleeping in an actual bed."

"What, the couch wasn't living up to your high expectations?"

"I don't think it was meeting yours either, Lex, unless I hallucinated that wince just now," Billy states, one brow lifting as he stands as well, and stretches again, this time in a way that gives me a brief glimpse of his abdomen beneath the hem of his shirt, "You remember where I put my keys?"

"Oh no, mister. You're not driving home on next to no sleep."

"I wasn't aware you were the leading authority on my ability to drive safely."

"I'm a doctor, remember?" I counter, somehow finding the wherewithal to wink playfully at him even in spite of the tired smile he sends my way that has me flushing just a bit in response, "I think that sort of judgment sort of comes with the job."

"I suppose I'll have to do my best to remember that."

"Damn straight."

"Seriously, though, I don't want to impose," Billy persists, his brow furrowing once again as he follows me into the kitchen, and leans a hip against the countertop while I reach for the glass beside the sink, and fill it with water, "You have a right to your own bed."

"You know how you won't let me argue with you on this whole talking to your friend about my problems thing?"

"Yeah—"

"Think of this as sort of the same thing. I'm not budging either."

For a moment or two after my remark, Billy remains silent, as though the act of watching me gulp down water has just become the most fascinating subject in the world. I can tell that he is caught in some sort of internal turmoil, though what the cause is, I cannot fathom. And although I really want to inquire as to what it is that seems to be troubling him, I remain mute, knowing full well that I will very likely not be given a straight answer, no matter what I ask.

I suppose sometimes, knowing Billy Russo's tendencies as well as I do can be as frustrating as trying to communicate with a patient that has absolutely no desire to be forthcoming at all.

Almost as soon as the thought comes to mind, I find that I am very near to overwhelmed with guilt, my brow furrowing as I return the glass to its place by the sink, and turn to face Billy directly. As inconvenient as his mercurial moods can be, I still am faced with the unwavering awareness that, if relief from those moods meant never seeing him again, I would take the worst he could throw my way ten times over.

Lord only knows that such a thought might just make me insane…

As though he can sense the direction of my wayward thoughts, Billy manages a half-smile for my benefit, his feet carrying him towards me so that he can crowd me back against the counter with an unreadable intensity in his brown eyes. For a moment, I simply remain frozen in place, my heart thumping erratically against my rib cage as I try to predict what exactly he intends to do…

"You know, this'll be the second time we've slept together. People might start to talk."

God, but he would make a joke out of this—

"Well, I suppose if you really want the sofa…"

"Don't even think about it, Lex."

Laughing to myself, I somehow find the willpower to scoot out from between Billy's substantially taller frame, and the edge of my kitchen counter, though the sensation of my shoulder brushing against his chest as I do so threatens to have me flushing all over again. Mercifully, I am able to resist, at least for the moment, perhaps only because of the distraction of hunting for the remote in the sofa cushions so that I can switch the television off before we retire—and although I do not dare look at Billy directly until I am certain I can control my wayward blushing, I am well aware of how he is following me closely, shadowing my movements as though some sort of innate instinct refuses to allow him to do anything else.

I would be a liar if I tried to pretend that thought did not fill me with a strange sense of warmth, even in spite of my reluctance to consider the reason behind that protectiveness in and of itself.

Perhaps that realization is why I am, at least for the moment, able to forgo any consideration of embarrassment in favor of reaching my hand behind me until I feel the steady warmth of Billy's fingers threading through my own. I know what this is—what it means, in reality, as compared to what I might wish it to signify in the privacy of my own hopes and dreams. But no matter how many times I may hope for such a thing, the fact of the matter is very simple.

Whatever it is that I share with Billy Russo, it will never be anything more than what it is now.

The sooner I come to terms with that, the better…

…

I wake, later that morning, alone in my bed, only the slightly rumpled quality of the sheets beside me giving any evidence that Billy had been with me at all. Almost absently, my hand reaches out to trace my fingertips against the fabric, the lack of any warmth at all giving me every indication that Billy had chosen to leave far earlier than I had intended. Predictably, a spasm of regret tugs at me, though with how exhausted I was after the previous day's activities, I cannot entirely begrudge him for simply allowing me to sleep. And even in spite of my mixed feelings regarding waking up alone, I am able to force my legs over the edge of the bed until the tips of my toes graze haphazardly against the carpeting, one hand running through disheveled hair while I glance at the clock on the table nearby.

It would seem I was so damned tired that I actually managed to sleep past noon…

Emitting an exasperated laugh, I finally force myself to get out of bed, my feet carrying me over to the door while the muted scent of brewed coffee tickles against my nostrils. That smell, it seems, is enough to have my pace quickening, only the briefest flares of relief registering within my mind as I determine that Karen is still not home, and I have the apartment to myself even if only for a few more moments to attempt to regain my composure.

I know that if she gets a chance to look at my face now, she will only end up firing more questions my way than I am prepared to deal with.

With that particular thought in mind, I hurry to the kitchen and reach for my discarded coffee cup from the night before, only to find myself brought up short as I realize there is a half-crumpled piece of paper stuffed inside. My brow furrows as I reach inside to bring the paper out so that I can unfold it, and begin to read—but of course as soon as I recognize the slanting handwriting upon the page, I cannot help but grin.

Lex—

Keep the pizza. I know you don't have the time for home cooked meals. I'll be travelling for the next few days, but you know how to reach me if you need me. Behave yourself. I mean it—you won't like the repercussions if you don't.

B. R.

"Ass," I grumble, rolling my eyes and setting the paper on the countertop so that my hands are free to pour myself a cup of the coffee I seem to need now, more than ever. Obviously, I am unable to allow myself to be truly angry with Billy, no matter how much I may want to be, given how easily he seems to think he can boss me around. And even though I am still at least partially miffed at him over leaving without so much as a goodbye, I find that I am able to forgive even that minor faux pas, my attention instead turning to another task that I can direct myself to for the day in hopes of keeping my mind from repeating past events.

Agent Orange…

With a renewed sense of purpose I find that I am able to carry my coffee mug over to the sofa so that I might set it upon the table, my hands now free to rummage beneath the sofa for my discarded laptop. Already, I can just picture the reprimand that would be only too forthcoming if David were to see how I stored such a device, a slight smile causing the corners of my mouth to twitch as my fingertips simultaneously brush against the laptop's edge, and I tug it out so that I can place it securely upon the table before me. For a moment or two after I power the device on, I remain still, as though some sort of instinctive need for self-preservation is holding me back from any sort of movement at all.

I suppose years of ignoring any of those sorts of instincts will just have to be enough to encourage me to move forward.

Steeled by that particular idea, I take a reassuring sip of coffee, savoring the warmth that snakes down my throat before leaning forward with both elbows upon my knees so that I can partake in a search that I have no idea exactly how to begin. Reminiscent of so many times working on the beginnings of school projects, I start with a run of the mill Google search—

Nothing, except links to information on the chemical compound used in Vietnam. Typical.

Suppressing a frustrated groan, I peer at the search results more intently for a moment, my eyes narrowed just a bit as one finger absently taps on the edge of the table for lack of anything else to do to vent my impatience. I know for a fact that David would not have given me a faulty lead, small as it was. That if he found something that linked this 'Agent Orange' to my brother's death, the information had to be out there regarding what or who reside beneath the code name itself.

And the information was out there. I knew it. I just had to find it.

Determined—perhaps more so than I ever have been before—I divert my attention from the computer screen for just a moment in favor of reaching for the television remote and turning it on, if for no other reason than to create a bit of background noise while I work. I can remember using that very same technique when I was still in school, improving my focus far more than silence ever could.

I can only hope that it does the same thing, now.

…

The sound of keys jangling in the apartment door roughly an hour later, giving me only just enough time to shut my laptop and lean back against the sofa as though I have been watching television this entire time. Of course, some small part of me is aware that even that small attempt at subterfuge may fall short, particularly with as well as the woman who enters the apartment with an exasperated sigh, and the clatter of a few bags falling to the floor knows me. But in spite of that awareness, I force myself to persist, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I meet her gaze rather directly, and persuade myself to speak first.

"Hey, you."

"Hey," Karen replies, kicking the door shut with the toe of one boot, and dropping the rest of the bags she carries into a pile on the floor at her feet so that she can stretch her arms and back once free from the strain, "You off today?"

"Damn straight."

"What are we binge-watching?"

"At the moment? Grey's," I confess, pleased that my glance at the television that I certainly have not been paying any attention to has gone unnoticed, while Karen stoops to begin picking up the bags at her feet once more, "But I can change it if you want."

"Nope. Grey's is perfect."

"Good."

Aware that Karen appears, at least on the surface, to be satisfied by my response, I allow myself to lean back on the sofa once more, my attention still not fully residing where I have assured Karen that it has been for the past hour at least, as I choose instead to watch her maneuvering all of the bags towards the kitchen counter. One brow quirked, I wait for her to set them out to her satisfaction, before she is turning and rummaging through the refrigerator for a can of pop. And although a part of me wonders if remaining silent might not be the better course of action, given that my questioning of her actions may just lead Karen to begin to question my own, I cannot entirely resist, a faint smirk settling over my features as I watch her head toward the sofa before I speak.

"I didn't know your cousins were shopaholics, Karen."

"They're not."

"Oh? Then where'd all the bags come from, I wonder?"

"If you must know, I left my aunt's house early, and hit up the mall instead," My roommate admits, sprawling on the opposite arm of the sofa from where I sit, and swinging her feet up so that they rest on the cushion between us, mere centimeters from my thigh, "Come on, don't judge me, Lex, you know how bad she is—"

"This is true."

"Then you also know why I needed a bit of retail therapy after the fact."

"I suppose I do, at that."

"Thank you for your cooperation."

"You're welcome," I say, leaning forward to reach for my cup of coffee, and managing a sip or two before going on, "Next time, can you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"Invite me?"

A laugh is my only response for a moment, as Karen takes a few sips of her own beverage, and that silence gives me the opportunity to glance, once again, at my laptop. Unbidden, a jolt of apprehension hits me as I return to the thought of exactly how much I still do not know—of how much work I still have to do to determine who might be behind an event that had changed my life forever.

Naturally, as soon as I touch upon such a thought, I realize that Karen has been trying to get my attention once more, her expression beginning to take on a familiar look of concern, and thus prompting me to abandon another sip of coffee in favor of heading her off before she can start whatever interrogation she has planned for me now.

"I'm fine, Karen. I'm just tired, that's all."

"You and me both. I suppose that's why you're still drinking coffee at three in the afternoon?" She inquires, eyeing the mug in my hands as though she is trying to see through it and into the true reason for my temporary despondency before I have a chance to stop her. For a fleeting moment, I am almost tempted to confess the real reason I was awake for so long last night.

Fortunately for me, the moment passes almost as quickly as it comes, thus giving me a reprieve from questions that I am not entirely certain I will ever be prepared to answer.

"That might be a reason. Though if I'm not careful, I'll end up giving myself an ulcer."

"At least you know how to treat it."

"True," I state, leaning back against the cushion behind me for what felt like the hundredth time, and placing my feet on the edge of the coffee table to give them some form of elevation, "But I really don't know what I'd do if I had to live without this stuff for the rest of my life."

"Let's hope we never have to find out."

"Amen to that."

After such a remark, I find that Karen and I are once again lapsing into a comfortable silence, the ease with which we seem to be able to do such a thing no matter the circumstance providing some small semblance of reassurance, even in the face of my recent misgivings and frustration. I would be a liar if I were to pretend that a part of me did not want to ask her what, if anything she might have heard regarding my as yet elusive quarry from today's fruitless internet searches—

Only the threat of someone getting to her as a result of what I have dragged her into gives me the willpower to hold my tongue.

I absolutely will not risk the life of one of my best friends in a search for information that may never yield any results.

Steeled by that thought, I find that I am rather easily able to simply give in to the pull of the television and the comfortable silence that exists between Karen and I; my gaze only flickering to the laptop on the table for the briefest of moments before I am focusing the entirety of my attention on the television screen, instead.

My only option, it seems, is to take my lack of findings back to David, to see if perhaps two heads will prove to be better than one.

…

Three days later I find myself lurking outside of an Evangelical Church, vacillating back and forth over whether or not I should bite the bullet, so to speak, and open the door to go inside, or if I should turn around and head back home before anyone notices my presence at all. Of course, objectively, I can see the potential benefits of simply getting over my apprehension, and pressing forward, for Billy's sake, if nothing else. But a still greater part of me still rests firmly in the realm of believing that I truly do not deserve to be here, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip for a moment before I begin to turn away from the door.

Honestly, I suppose should have expected fate to throw something into my path to prevent me from doing exactly that…

"You need me to hold the door for you, ma'am?"

"I—sure. Sure, thank you," I stammer, turning back towards the door in question, and finding myself face to face with a man dressed in faded blue jeans, a navy polo, and a jacket that reminds me almost jarringly of the one Nathan had given me that I still keep hidden in the back of my bedroom closet, "Am I—I won't be interrupting the whole group—thing—will I?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, we're all done for the day," The man replies, surprising me by following me back inside, and guiding me towards the stairs at the opposite end of the foyer that we have just entered, "Curtis is the only one left in here, besides me."

"I see."

"He a friend of yours, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Curtis, ma'am. Is he a friend?"

"Actually, no," I admit, averting my gaze to the impending climb downstairs in hopes that my newfound companion will not notice the almost automatic flush that adorns my cheeks as a result of the truth behind my visit here, "I—I'm here to speak to him. As a—a client."

"You served?" The man inquires, astonishment coloring his features for a moment as he glances at my frame in earnest, as though doubting I have it in me to don fatigues, much less handle a weapon. For a moment, a part of me is almost tempted to allow him to persist in such an incorrect assumption, if for no other reason than to avoid the all too predictable embarrassment that I know I will feel as soon as I tell him the truth.

Fortunately, my conscience steps in at this precise moment, forcing me to pause in the act of descending the steps so that I might attempt to accurately explain my situation without complete disclosure.

"No. No, I didn't, actually," I begin, glancing up at the man's expression, and fighting back surprise as I discern there is absolutely no judgment there at all, "But I—something happened a few years back, and a friend referred me here to try and—talk about it."

"Well Curtis is really, really good. I think you're gonna like him."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely," My companion confirms, a firm nod accompanying his statement, and prompting me to smile faintly as I realize beyond any doubt that his assertion is sincere, "And I think if you wanted, you could probably come to group, too."

"I don't—I'm not sure my problems really warrant that."

"I think there might be at least a few of us who see it differently."

"Will you be able to forgive me if I don't take that on faith right away?" I wonder aloud, hoping beyond hope that my inquiry will not offend this man that, even in the face of his experiences overseas, still seems to have the capacity for hanging on to who he was before, "It's not because I don't think anyone has that capability, I just—"

"You want to see it for yourself."

"I do."

"That makes sense," The man admits, his contemplative expression giving me more reassurance than I think he really knows as we both reach the landing of the stairs, and he takes a moment to gesture at our surroundings with the hand that is not still resting upon the rail, "But we are in a church. That might imply that you should at least try to take something on faith, don't you think?"

Unable to resist the laugh that breaks free in response to the question, I settle for simply allowing it to take over, the startling freedom that such a thing provides giving me pause as I turn once again, and risk a glance at the man that caused it to come into being to begin with. I truly cannot explain it—how this man reminds me so very much of my brother, even in the face of the fact that his physical resemblance to Nathan is about as different as night and day. And half in an effort to keep him talking, even though the motivation behind it is more than just a little selfish, I glance around the room we have just entered as well, a sigh escaping before I speak once more.

"I think you might be right on that one, Mister—"

"No 'Mister' necessary, ma'am. That's reserved for my father," My companion interjects, extending his right hand to reach for my own, and giving it a gentle squeeze that has me regarding him with an equal mix of curiosity, and a desire to keep him talking, in spite of the fact that I only met him mere moments ago, "You can feel free to call me Lewis."

"Well I think I ought to give you something to call me, other than ma'am," I return, glancing down at where his hand still remains between us, holding my own as though he is every bit as unwilling to end this small interaction as I am.

"You can call me Alexis."

…


	9. First Meeting

Unable to do anything other than follow after Lewis as he escorts me down one of the hallways that appears to be lit by a simple fluorescent bulb hanging from the ceiling about midway down its length. The heels of my boots create an almost eerie, echoing noise as I move along in my new acquaintance's wake, lending our sudden silence an almost frightening quality, were it not for the obvious comfort of my companion, and the sudden sound of someone stacking metal chairs in a room not far from where we stand. And, before I know it, Lewis has led me to the door from which the sound of stacking emanates, disappearing through the doorway with relative ease so that I find I am forced to follow suit so as to avoid looking as though I am antisocial.

Not antisocial—just apprehensive.

"Hey, Curt! Found someone you might wanna meet upstairs," Lewis states, turning back to face me, and managing what I can only interpret as a reassuring smile before returning his attention to the man standing beside the chair rack—a tall, welcoming man, who graces me with a brilliantly white smile before stepping forward to reach for my hand.

"Curtis Hoyle. You must be the one Russo told me so much about."

"I—Alexis Hanson," I stammer, registering the strength in Curtis' handshake, and managing a smile as I meet his eyes, and discern nothing but sincerity in their depths, "He told me you—you knew my brother?"

"Nathan. Yeah, I did. One of the best damn corpsman I ever saw in my life, and somebody that wouldn't shut up about the little sister he left at home, too," Curtis elaborates, noting my flushing cheeks, and redirecting his attention to Lewis instead as though instinctively trying to give me enough time to regain my composure, "The stories he used to tell about this little lady, Lewis—you'd have died laughing."

"I'm sure I would have."

"And I'm sure I would have died of embarrassment," I quip, somewhat pleased that my flushing is slowly subsiding, and granting myself the liberty of a small laugh before speaking further, "I have to say, given what I suspect he told you, I'm surprised you're not running for the hills."

"I like to think of myself as a guy with a strong constitution."

"You might need it, if Billy has anything to say about it."

"We'll see," Curtis responds, something in the skeptical nature of his reply prompting me to feel more at ease than I ever thought I would be as I come to terms with the idea that perhaps he is precisely the person to disclose my problems to, no matter my initial doubts. Regardless of what I might have presumed prior to my arrival at the church, it has become abundantly clear that Curtis Hoyle is not a man that is easily daunted. And that reality, more than anything else, has my posture relaxing just a bit, the small wave I offer Lewis before he leaves nothing short of genuine, as I find myself fervently hoping we will have the opportunity to meet again in the future.

Whether such a hope makes me foolish or not—I suppose I will just have to wait and see.

…

"So how long would you say these dreams have gone on?"

"Pardon?"

"How long have you been having them?" Curtis clarifies, leaning back in the chair he occupies, and shifting so that he can rest one ankle on the opposite knee in a gesture that is obviously made in an effort to get me to regain some sense of comfort in his presence. In contrast to the first fifteen minutes or so of our would-be session, where we spent our time discussing trivial things such as personal backgrounds and sharing light jokes, the time in which we have spent actually attempting to delve into the root cause of my visit in the first place seems to have shaken me far more than I could have imagined. And although I am well aware that I am, in fact, safe here, I cannot help but submit to yet another shiver that seems all but determined to shake my frame rather visibly, a sigh escaping before I finally make an attempt to answer the question that has been posed to me.

"I—honestly? They've been coming and going off and on for years," I admit, my arms coming to fold defensively across my chest even though I know I have absolutely no reason to be so guarded, "Ever since the—the day when—"

"When you lost your brother?"

"Yes."

"And have you ever talked about these dreams to anyone else before?"

"In a way?"

"How so?"

"I've mentioned them to my roommate, but she doesn't know the full scope."

"Why is that?" Curtis inquires, his expression indicating simple curiosity, and not judgment, as he regards me for a moment before choosing to elaborate upon his query, "You trust her, I imagine, otherwise you wouldn't be living with her—"

"Believe me, I trust her. With my life," I reply, managing a light grin in the hopes that it will ensure Curtis does not take my hasty reply as one of rebuttal, "I just don't want to—to burden her with stuff that doesn't really matter, at the end of the day."

"Doesn't really matter? From where I'm sitting, Alexis, if the dreams impact you this deeply, that means they matter."

"Even though I didn't do anything to earn them?"

"You lived through a trauma, every bit as much as anyone that we sent overseas," Curtis assures me, abandoning his reclined pose and instead choosing to lean forward towards me so that both elbows are poised upon his knees, "The first step to even trying to begin to recover from something like that is admitting that what you experienced is valid."

"Valid?"

"Yes. Valid. If you don't allow yourself to believe that you experienced something worthy of seeking help to get past it, you won't move on, no matter how much you might try."

"That's encouraging," I deadpan, picking idly at a stray thread on my sleeve that seems, at least for now, to have become as fascinating as if it were the latest medical journal, "I'm sorry, I just don't—I don't like thinking that I have some innate right to complain about how awful my life has been."

"Considering the manner in which you lost someone close to you, I'd say you have more of a right than most."

Unable to do anything other than gape at Curtis in response to his statement, I find that I am suddenly caught up in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, my vision blurring just a bit as I attempt to sort through the chaos of my thoughts. I know, on some level that he is right. That I have every right to consider what I experienced surrounding the death of my brother as a traumatic experience. But even with that knowledge I am powerless to deny the predictable surge of guilt that I feel almost immediately after the thought comes to mind, my entire body freezing in place as though what has just crossed my mind is tantamount to a sin.

"Alexis?" Curtis begins, stunning me with the nearness of his voice, and causing me to jump just a bit as I come to the realization that, in the middle of my distracted musings, he has abandoned his chair and chosen instead to crouch before me with one calloused hand tentatively reaching for my own.

"I—I'm sorry, Curtis, I was just—"

"It's okay. It's okay," He promises, his tone somehow soothing even in the face of how my heart has taken up the task of hammering erratically against my ribs, "You don't have to confront your memories, or the dreams right now."

"I—I don't?"

"No. No one fixes something like this in the space of an hour or two. What matters is that you eventually start to trust that what you went through is worth dissecting, and that you deserve to heal."

Forcing myself to manage a nod so that Curtis will not think I have ignored him completely, I once again allow myself the temporary reprieve of investigating my own thoughts, only to find that they are no less organized than they were before his attempt at reassurance. For a moment, I am discouraged, particularly because I wanted so fiercely to believe that I could do this. But almost as suddenly, I find that Curtis is squeezing my hand, the gesture causing my eyes to float back to his features as I realize perhaps he had a point.

No one that needed help, physical, mental, or otherwise, ever got very far by pushing themselves faster than they were prepared to go…

Suddenly steeled, at least partially, by that line of thinking, I find that I am once again able to look Curtis in the eye, my features only expressing shock as I realize he is giving me a rather sizable grin, while simultaneously relinquishing my hand so he can stand to his full height in the same motion.

"Tell you what. Why don't you and I blow this popsicle stand, and go find some food?" He offers, extending a hand to help me up from my own chair, and laughing good-naturedly as I stumble just a bit in the effort of taking the proffered hand, and rising to stand, myself.

"In my experience, no one ever solved any problems on an empty stomach."

As easily as that, it seems, Curtis has pulled me from the throes of my own uncertainty, and given me a chance to divert my attention to something far less painful in one fell swoop.

Damn, but Lewis was right.

This guy was good.

…

"Well, it looks like Nathan was right. You can eat," Curtis surmises, chuckling as I manage a mock glare for his benefit, while simultaneously polishing off the last of the onion rings that remained on the plate resting between us, "Obviously, I don't mean any offense by that—"

"None taken."

"Well good. I'd hate to have you running off on me because of a misunderstanding."

"You keep feeding me like this and I won't be able to run anywhere," I reply, only just managing to stifle a hiccup, and grinning in spite of myself at the obvious proof that I have eaten far too fast to accommodate my stomach's attempts at digestion, "I probably shouldn't have let you convince me to go for that second plate of onion rings."

"Yeah, but it was good."

"Fair point. It was good."

"Can I ask you a question?" Curtis inquires then, his smile fading, but not disappearing entirely as he fiddles with the paper left over from his straw, and registers my almost immediate nod before pressing further, "Without referencing the dreams, or that day, are you able to talk about your brother?"

"For the most part, yes. I just—I don't usually share much about him to someone that didn't know him," I admit, aware that Curtis is watching me, not unkindly, and doing what I can to settle the sudden swell of apprehension I am feeling at the prospect of discussing the past in light of the fact that this man knew my brother personally, "Obviously you're not included in the group of people I wouldn't share much with."

"It would be okay if I was, you know."

"It would?"

"Of course. I knew your brother, but considering this is the first time we've met, I'd understand if you had your reservations."

"I don't. Not really."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure," I state, startlingly certain of my reply, though my past habits indicate I have absolutely no reason to be, "Just—just because I haven't found it within myself to tell you about what I actually need help with doesn't mean I can't talk about him in general."

"That's good to know," Curtis muses, pausing just long enough to take a swig of the cola he ordered, and sending me yet another reassuring smile before elaborating further, "If Nate was any indication, you'd be a pretty tough nut to crack."

"Oh, so I'm a nut to crack, now."

"Technically, that's not exactly what I said—"

"Good save."

"I thought so."

"In all seriousness, though, yeah, I am more than fine talking with you about Nathan, in general," I concede, somewhat pleased with how my attempt at redirecting the conversation seems to meet with Curtis' approval, and finding that I am consequently a bit more at ease with proposing my next offer, no matter how impromptu it may seem, "And likewise, that goes for you too. If you ever need to—to talk."

"Spoken like a true physician."

"Well—that's what I am."

"And apparently Nathan was right about one other thing," Curtis says, something in his grin turning mischievous as he leans forward with both elbows on the table, and regards me with an expression that essentially gives me the ability to predict what he is about to say even though I hardly know him.

"You're a regular smart-ass, aren't you, Miss Hanson?"

"I guess you could say that I am, yes."

"Well I like it. And I think you and I should make a point of meeting again this time next week," He suggests, only glancing away from me to check his phone, his features flinching for just a bit before they are once again the very picture of calm, and he is able to return his attention to me in full.

"I think we both might benefit from more meetings than just this one."

Surprisingly, even in spite of how I am still unsure whether our time together today has actually been productive or not, I find that I am readily agreeing, and rising to stand so that I can accept the hastily proffered embrace that Curtis gives me before we part for good.

"Hey Curtis?" I call out, fervently praying that the tentativeness in my tone is not too apparent, and finding that whether it is or not, my newfound acquaintance turns around quickly enough to reply.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to hold you to that claim, you know?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

…

The walk back to my apartment passes relatively quickly, even in the face of my wayward thoughts that have turned inward upon themselves almost as soon as Curtis had departed from my company. In truth, I know that I ought to have been enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, particularly since if the weekly forecast is any indication, the remainder of the week will be filled with one sodden downpour after another. But even with that awareness, I cannot entirely permit myself to focus on more pleasant things than the nature of things that Curtis and I discussed today, my teeth chewing idly at my lower lip as I walk along with both arms crossed over my chest as though the light breeze is far chillier than it actually is.

I know that he is right. That in order to get past everything that happened, I need to admit that it was a valid experience to begin with.

Why, then, is the very idea of acknowledging what I went through so damned horrifying that it has a light sheen of sweat breaking out upon my palms?

Shaking my head in mute exasperation over my own inability to process my thoughts and memories, I force myself instead to focus upon walking towards the crosswalk that will lead to my apartment complex, my steps only pausing for long enough to ascertain that there are no vehicles speeding my way so that I can continue walking across the street. I make it about half-way across, my eyes riveted directly ahead of me, and my hands now swinging idly at my sides, before I feel it—the sudden prickle that races down my spine, and causes me to freeze in place, my heart lurching within my chest as I simultaneously turn to get a better glance at my surroundings.

They appear, for the most part, to be completely ordinary, of course, the sight of people walking to and from various assignations, or simply departing after that one final meeting ran late at work, each individual set of eyes riveted upon their path, or their cellphone in equal measure. Absolutely nothing at all could be deemed truly out of the ordinary, and yet my uneasy feeling still seems all but determined to persist.

Naturally, the abrupt sound of a horn honking as its attendant vehicle approaches startles me rather effectively away from my sudden intrigue with the goings-on around me, my feet taking up the act of jogging the rest of the way to the side of the street I desire to be on before I can inadvertently stall traffic any further. Almost as soon as my feet hit the corresponding pavement, however, I find that I am once again succumbing to the peculiar prickle that seems determined to remain, tracing its path up and down my spine, a sigh escaping as I once again permit my eyes to rove over the crowd of both pedestrians and moving vehicles alike.

And then I see it. The black sedan with tinted windows resting exactly perpendicular to where I stand, only one of those windows cracked to admit the sudden gust of air that succeeds in blowing my hair halfway across my face.

Once again, a shiver of apprehension rolls through me, my eyes narrowing as I catch a glimpse of something moving within the vehicle, though exactly what that something is, I cannot tell, given the small breadth of space between the window itself, and the sedan's top. And although I am well aware that it is foolish—risky, even—I find that I am glancing towards the street once more to discern if I will be at risk of impending collision, and determining that I will not be, at least not at the moment, I begin the trek towards the sedan as though greeting an old friend.

Almost as soon as I start moving, however, the window on the aforementioned vehicle is inching upward until it is closed completely, the sound of tires squealing against the pavement only just alerting me to the fact that I need to retreat back to the sidewalk before the car lurches out into the intersection and speeds past me closely enough to cause the breeze generated by its movement to tug at my hair and the hem of my shirt.

"Miss—Miss, are you alright?" A voice hails me, breaking me from my frozen stance almost in the middle of the road, and causing me to turn back to face the source of the sound—a fifty-some year old gentleman whose expression is the very picture of concern.

"I—yes, I'm fine," I reply, shaking off his advances of worry with as much politeness as I can muster, "I should have been paying better attention."

"You did as best you could, from what I could see. He had no call to almost run you over like that."

"Is that what you—what you think that was?"

"I don't know. But he seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get out of dodge, either way."

In lieu of a reply, I find that my gaze is once again rather easily diverted to the direction in which the mystery sedan has just sped off, a haze of confusion making my thoughts far more sluggish than they might have been, otherwise. No matter how foolish it may seem, I am utterly powerless to ignore the fact that the car's speeding off when it did, before I had even been granted the opportunity to seek the safety of the curb is highly suspect. And perhaps it is that very thought that gives my features reason to blanch, the sudden shift in my expression apparently alerting my would-be savior to some need to inquire after my health once more.

"Are—are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," I persist, managing a smile for my erstwhile companion's benefit, before extricating myself as gently as I can from his attentions, my sole focus turning towards returning to my apartment and the solitude therein as soon as feasibly possible, "I appreciate your concern, really, but I should be getting home."

"Of course. Have a good rest of your day."

"You—you too."

Before I can find myself further distracted, I find that I am hurrying to the door of my apartment complex and hastily digging into my purse for the keycard that will grant me entry, without once sparing a glance back at the scene of an event that I do not dare to attempt to understand…

To say anything other than that I am now instinctively terrified beyond measure would be a grievous lie.

…


	10. Desperate Measures

In the wake of my rather hasty retreat into my apartment, and with the door now securely closed behind me, I still cannot seem to stop the rapid pounding of my heart, my spine flattened against the door as I struggle for purchase on something—anything—that feels real. Safe. In mere moments, it seems, my entire world has been tilted on its axis, as there is absolutely no way I can shrug off what has just happened as a simple accident and still call myself sane. Although it is beyond cliché, my life has quite literally flashed before my very eyes. And even with the ever-present reminder of that reality as manifested in how my hands cannot seem to stop trembling against my thighs, I cannot seem to summon any further reaction than remaining motionless, every breath I take seeming to stick inside my throat as I struggle to regain composure.

No matter what I do, I cannot seem to get the sound of squealing tires out of my head…

In response to the persistent reverberation of the sound in my mind, I find that I am exhaling a shaky breath before forcing myself to move away from the door, my feet somehow gathering the wherewithal to move towards the sofa, so that my purse can drop haphazardly onto the floor beside it prior to allowing my body to sag against the cushions. In this particular moment, it feels as though every last fiber of my being has simply given up any desire to hold me upright, my eyes drifting closed almost of their own accord while my fingers curl into fists as though the sensation of my nails digging into the skin of my palms really stands a chance at jolting me out of my current inability to function. Of course, some small part of me is well aware that it will not work. That in order to regain some semblance of control over my own life, and my reactions to it, I need to face what happened, and discern whether it was a case of mistaken identity, or a direct attempt to harm me, personally.

If only I could actually convince myself to do that, this would be so much easier…

Regardless of my own apparent limitations, however, the real world does not seem that inclined to wait for me to readjust, my heart nearly jumping out of my chest as the shrill ringing of my phone breaks into the otherwise silent aura of my apartment, and forcing me to shake myself into some semblance of awareness so that I might lean forward to reach for the device where it still resides at the bottom of my purse. Once I succeed in fishing it out, I recognize the name flashing across the screen. And although I do not even remotely have a desire to speak to this particular individual at the moment, I am also well aware that it might be enough to get me back into the land of the living, so to speak.

Or at least, it might be for the time being.

"Andrew—hey."

"Hey, Lex," Andrew replies, something in the hesitant nature of his tone prompting me to be perhaps a bit more generous with my sympathy than I might have been ordinarily, particularly given what I have just experienced, "You ah—you have a minute to talk?"

"I think that depends on what we're going to be talking about—"

"I just want to—to clear some things up. That's all."

"Okay," I manage, amazed at how tremulous that one word sounds, and consequently running the fingers of my free hand through my hair in a half-hearted attempt at releasing some of the tension that seems all but determined to vibrate through each nerve ending I possess, "Go ahead."

"Are you okay?"

"Am I—what do you mean?"

"I mean are you okay?" Andrew repeats, his words causing my brow to furrow as I register the very real and at least seemingly genuine concern therein, "You sound like you just ran a marathon and came out on the short end of the stick."

"I'm fine, Andrew."

"You sure?"

"Positive. What did you want to say?"

"That I—I'm sorry. For what happened a few days ago, and that I—that it won't happen again."

Stunned by the abrupt honesty inherent in that statement, I find that I am at a loss for what to say in response, the fingers of my free hand fiddling with a stray thread on the fabric of my jeans while I allow his words to repeat on loop in my head. He is sorry. He is, or so he says, and even in spite of how we are only having this conversation over the telephone, he truly does seem sincere. And although some small part of me wants to withhold my forgiveness, as though I am simply incapable of performing such an obviously simple gesture, I find that I am swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, my next words far more hushed than I ever intended for them to be.

"I—it's okay."

"You really don't sound like it is."

"And you can tell that just by listening to my voice?"

"We're both doctors, Lex. We're trained to pick up on subtle signals in a patient's behavior."

"So now you're psychoanalyzing me?" I inquire, somehow managing to force myself to stand upright, in spite of how exhaustion has started to weigh on my body like an unnaturally heavy blanket, "That's good to know."

"I'm not psychoanalyzing you. I'm just—I'm concerned. Maybe I could meet you for dinner somewhere—"

"I really don't think I'm in the mood to go out right now, Andrew."

"We could always get takeout and eat in," Andrew persists, his tone taking on a familiar, almost wheedling quality that has me every bit as frustrated as I am tempted to accept the offer at face value, "Come on, Lex. Let me just—let me just make sure we're really okay. As friends."

Lapsing into silence yet again, I do what I can to attempt to reason out the pros and cons of any decision I might make, my reluctance to inadvertently encourage Andrew to hold out hope at odds with my sudden need to not be alone. Given what happened outside the apartment complex, I am all but paralyzed at the idea of spending the remainder of this particular evening rattling around with nothing but my own thoughts and recollections for company. And although the one person I would want at my side, without a doubt, is essentially unreachable for the time-being, I find myself suddenly coming to the decision that even the company of someone with whom my relationship has become a bit strained is far better than facing the prospect of complete solitude for one more minute.

"Okay," I consent, the word coming out in a rush as I force myself to my feet, and stoop to reach for my purse so that I can stow it away safely in my bedroom, "When did you think you'd be around?"

"If you're good with Chinese, I can be there in fifteen minutes," Andrew states, his tone turning hopeful in the wake of my agreement, and causing one corner of my mouth to turn up just a bit as a result before I reply.

"I would love Chinese."

"See you in fifteen, then."

"Yeah. See you in fifteen," I repeat, making my way into my bedroom, and hanging my purse on its hook beside the closet before stepping through the smaller doorway and into the bathroom to inspect my appearance in the mirror. Almost immediately, I am emitting a small sigh, the soft clink my cell phone gives as I place it on the countertop hardly registering as I lean forward to determine what areas of my appearance might need the most work. Naturally, given my most recent experience, it would not be too far from the truth to say that every facet of my features required some effort, at this point—but given that I appear to only have a short amount of time to work with, I settle for reaching for the hairbrush to undo some of the tangles that have taken root in my hair, my teeth once again chewing at my lower lip while I try to redirect my thoughts to putting forth nothing but the impression of absolute normalcy.

No matter what, I know that if Andrew learns of what happened just prior to his call, the remainder of this evening will only be harder than it already is.

…

"So—this is where Dr. Hanson retreats from the trials and tribulations of the day."

"Yep. Home sweet home," I reply, gesturing with one hand at what little of the apartment Andrew can actually see, and following him as he walks toward the sofa, and the table beside it so that he can relinquish his hold on the bags of takeout he brought along, "You want a beer? Wine?"

"Beer is always good. Unless, of course, you have something a little stronger."

"You trying to turn me into an alcoholic, Rawlins?"

"Why? Is it working?"

"It might be," I admit, sending Andrew a tremulous half-smile, and turning to head toward the kitchen before he can question me on my apparent lack of enthusiasm, "What were you thinking? Vodka tonic?"

"That works for me."

"I don't have any fresh limes—"

"That's okay," Andrew replies, removing both cartons of takeout from their bags, and glancing my way with one brow raised, "Do we need place mats for these, or—"

"They're just fine on the table. Karen and I aren't as neat freak-ish as most other people you might know."

"And am I going to meet this 'Karen' that you speak so highly of?"

"Probably not," I confess, momentarily caught off-guard by the fact that I will be spending a good chunk of time alone with a man who, just days before, made his feelings for me quite clear, and somehow choosing to persist in the act of standing on tiptoe to obtain two glasses for the aforementioned alcoholic beverages, "She's ah—she works late a lot."

"I guess we won't have to share our food then."

"Nope. Doesn't look like we will."

For a moment after such a confirmation of facts, silence passes between us, the only other sounds taking up space in the apartment being the clink of the ice cubes I have placed in the two glasses, and the soft rustlings of Andrew's attempts to set our food out on the table without disturbing any of the books or Karen's laptop that are already seeking residence there. In spite of myself, I find that I am relaxing just a bit, my eyes following Andrew's movements as he stoops to pick up a stray napkin that has just fallen out of the takeout bag, while my hand remains frozen on the bottle of vodka I have just removed from the cupboard.

I suppose it seems only natural that Andrew chooses that moment to glance my way, thus catching me in the act of staring, and causing my cheeks to burn while I make a last-ditch effort at appearing as though my observation of his actions are merely circumstantial.

As if that could ever actually succeed…

"You good, Lex?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, I'm good. I just caught a whiff of that food and startled myself with how hungry I was, I guess."

"Then I'd suggest you join me and start eating," Andrew begins, sending me a wink that has another small seed of apprehension taking root in my stomach, though I mask it as best I can, and finish pouring our drinks so that I can join him on the sofa, "I can't promise I'll leave anything for you, if you don't."

"Is that a doctor's order?"

"I guess you could call it that, yeah."

"Well then it's lucky for you I'm done mixing our drinks."

"I guess it is."

Aware of how the tips of Andrew's fingers brush against my own as I hand him the glass, I push down against the instinctive desire I feel to jerk away, instead forcing my eyes to meet his as I offer him what I hope can pass as a sincere smile. In truth, I do appreciate his presence—every bit as much as I genuinely want with every fiber of my being to be able to find some measure of solace in another's company, rather than spending the night alone. But every bit as much as I want that companionship, some small part of me still seems to recoil from it, a small frown marring my features as I sit beside Andrew on the sofa, and manage a sip of the beverage in my hand.

"Listen—Lex—" Andrew says, once again startling me out of my internal musings, such as they are, and forcing me to meet his gaze head on once more as I realize he has reached towards me to place a hand upon my thigh, "I meant what I said on the phone earlier. About the—about the kiss."

"I know you did, Andrew."

"Then why do I get the feeling you still can't really look me in the eye?"

"I can. Really," I promise, forcing myself to maintain his gaze although a part of me wants nothing more than to look away, "I'm sorry if you felt like I couldn't. I just—"

"You just what?"

"I've just had a hell of a last few days, that's all."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Would you absolutely hate me if I say no?"

"Alexis, you should know by now that I could never hate you," Andrew chides, his hand abandoning its hold upon my thigh so that it can move to brush a stray lock of dark hair behind my ear, instead, "What brought this on?"

"Nothing brought it on, per se," I reply, inching back just a bit on the sofa so that I am temporarily out of reach and Andrew is consequently forced to drop his hand back to his own drink, "I just don't particularly feel like dumping all of my problems on anyone right now."

"No one at all?"

"No."

"Not even Russo?"

"Especially not him," I enthuse, my stomach doing a curious little lurch at the mention of a man that Andrew rather obviously considers to be an adversary, and forcing me to consider my next words as carefully as I can, "Trust me, Andrew, I wouldn't be telling anyone. Not even my roommate, okay?"

"Okay," He concedes, managing a faint smile before reaching for one of the containers of carry-out, and extending it towards me so that I can start to eat, "So—dinner and a movie?"

"Sure. Any preferences on the movie part?"

"Anything that's not a chick flick."

Unable to resist the laugh that breaks free in response to the ultimately predictable response Andrew has given me, I accept the carton of food, and simultaneously lean forward to pluck the remote off of the table in front of the sofa, something about the fact that we have successfully diverted the topic of conversation, at least temporarily, away from my problems and Billy Russo proving to be reassuring enough for my tense muscles to relax. Within seconds, I am leaning back against the sofa, my shoulder just a hairsbreadth away from Andrew's, with the warmth of both the Chinese and the vodka tonic stealing through my veins and settling my nerves far more effectively than I ever could have anticipated.

For now, at least, it appears that I might just have received the relief I so desperately needed from the near to paralyzing fear inspired by the events of this afternoon…

…

A few hours later I find myself squinting against the glare of the television as my eyes open onto a now-darkened room, the disorientation caused by such a thing permitting me to emit a low groan as I shift minutely, only to realize that I seem to have sprawled myself across the entire couch. For a moment, my brow furrows in obvious confusion, particularly as I can clearly see the two glasses on the table, sitting beside two half-eaten boxes of takeout.

I would like to think I know Andrew well enough to say he would not just bail while I was sleeping without even saying goodbye…

Determined, albeit foolishly, to prove that he has not done exactly that, I place both hands palms-flat against the surface of the sofa to push myself into a seated position, one hand automatically coming up to run through sleep-tangled hair while I take a moment to re-orient myself to my surroundings before standing upright. Almost as soon as I do find my feet, the rest of the vodka tonic I imbibed in prior to dozing off takes effect, my head pounding for only a moment until I can steady myself and move around the table towards my bedroom door. I have already noticed that Andrew's keys are still resting on the kitchen counter, exactly where he left them when he first arrived. And although I am well aware of the spasm of apprehension that takes root somewhere at the pit of my stomach, I choose to move forward regardless, my breath leaving my lungs in a rush before I find the wherewithal to speak.

"Andrew?"

My apprehension only seems to grow as I receive no forthcoming reply, a shiver rolling through me as I force myself to continue moving forward in spite of the sensation of my skin prickling in protest. Every self-preservation instinct I possess is screaming at me to turn back. To deal with this logically, instead of following the course of rash action that I seem to be set upon instead. But before I can fully corral my thoughts towards a more prudent course of action, a creaking floorboard diverts my attention, my heart jumping into my chest in tandem with Andrew's reappearance in my bedroom door.

"Hey, Lex."

"Where—did you not hear me call you?"

"What? No. No, I didn't," Andrew admits, leaning against the doorframe, and managing a shrug that I can only assume is his way of attempting an apology, "I was just looking for the ah—the restroom."

"The restroom."

"Yeah. I hope that was okay?"

"Oh—yeah, it—it's fine," I begin, taking a half-step backwards, and folding both arms across my chest as I realize Andrew has mirrored that step so that the distance between us is essentially the same, "I was just worried when I woke up and—"

"And I wasn't there?"

"Yeah."

"Well it seemed like you were out cold, Lex. I didn't want to wake you if it wasn't necessary."

"Okay."

"Listen, do—do you want me to stay here, tonight?" Andrew inquires, something in the gentle nature of the question preventing me from recoiling almost immediately as I realize one of his hands has come to rest on my arm to give it a gentle squeeze, "If you're skittish about being alone, I mean."

"Andrew—"

"I can sleep on the couch. I just can't help picking up on this vibe that you're not down with being on your own."

"I don't want you to feel like you have to do this," I protest, my brow furrowing as I try to come to terms with the conflicting desires running rampant in my mind. On the one hand, a part of me would feel remarkably more assured if I was not facing the reality of being the only one in the apartment overnight. But in spite of that desire, I still cannot shake the nagging sense of reluctance to allow what Andrew is offering, especially in light of what has so recently happened between us.

No matter what base instinct might demand, I am not entirely willing to risk giving mixed signals, even if it means I am spending the night alone.

"I don't feel like I have to. I want to," Andrew states, dropping his hand back to his side, and offering me a faint smile before going on, "But only if you're comfortable with it."

Frowning as I take a moment to weigh my options, I find that I am turning back towards the sofa, my feet seeming to move of their own accord so that I can perch on the edge of one of the cushions, and place my head in my hands. For a moment, I am able to be alone with my thoughts, my fingers moving to massage my temples as the renewed pounding of the alcohol-induced headache takes root, and a sigh of resignation escapes my lips. But almost as soon as I am able to take some measure of solace in that very fact, even in the face of the jackhammering going on inside my skull, I am aware of the dipping of the cushion beside me, the sensation of Andrew's hand reaching for one of my own so that our fingers can twine together filling me with an eerie combination of both relief, and apprehension—something that does not entirely go away as I realize Andrew is addressing me once again.

"Alexis, I'm here for you, okay?"

"I—I know," I assure, somehow gathering the fortitude to give Andrew's hand a soft squeeze, and forcing myself to hold back against the desire to pull my own away in favor of giving in to what my companion seems to desire so very clearly, if the expression that has taken over his features is any indication at all, "You can—you can stay. But couch, only."

"Couch only. Scout's honor."

"Okay then. I'll get you a pillow and some blankets. And Andrew?"

"Yeah, Lex?" My would-be houseguest says, a half-smile quirking at one corner of his mouth, while his gaze simultaneously slips down to rest upon our entwined fingers while I reply.

"Thank you."

No matter my own hesitation over what my decision may entail, I find that in light of today's events, I am entirely incapable of fully regretting it, my eyes meeting Andrew's one final time before I am extracting my hand from his so that I can stand and take steps toward obtaining the aforementioned blankets and pillow.

In spite of how I am fully aware of the potential lack of wisdom in my decision, it seems my heart has taken steps to achieve some modicum of comfort, regardless of whether my mind agrees with that choice, or not…

…


	11. Morning After

I wake the following morning to the sound of muted chatter, my brow furrowing for a moment as I attempt to discern why that fact alone is as unnerving enough to have my heart stuttering within my chest. I fell asleep alone. Karen would not be out there, talking to herself, and her voice would not sound distinctly male. But of course just as soon as I am prepared to shrug it all off as the result of an overactive imagination, and Karen's all too likely decision to catch up on one of the shows she was streaming when not at work, memories of the evening prior fall back into place in my mind one at a time, my entire body tensing as I realize exactly what must be going on outside my bedroom door.

Andrew never left the apartment…

Somehow that realization is enough to force me to throw aside the sheets twisted around my legs, my feet coming to rest on the carpeting before I am forcing myself to stand, and head towards the door. The sound of laughter reaches my ears just as my hand comes to rest upon the doorknob—and although some small part of me is trying to cling to the fact that there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this moment, I cannot shake the apprehension that steals through me, regardless, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip as I inhale as deeply as I can before opening the door and stepping out into the den.

"Hey there, sleepy-head."

"Andrew—" I reply, flinching as he stands from the sofa, and heads towards me, though I know the gesture is absolutely benign, "Hey Karen."

"Hey there yourself. You didn't tell me you were having a sleepover."

"It—it wasn't planned."

"These things never are," Karen states, the wink that she sends me as she perches on the edge of the sofa telling me all too clearly that she has come to the wrong conclusion, "Though even I have to admit, I never expected him to make coffee and breakfast."

"I—he what?"

"I figured you'd be hungry since you hardly touched the takeout last night," Andrew supplies, the sound of his voice effectively diverting my attention as I realize that he has already moved past me and into the kitchen to get a plate that sits on the warmer of the oven, "And you live for coffee—"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Fair point."

Accepting the plate, and the mug of steaming coffee that Andrew hands me, I take a seat on the edge of the chair beside the sofa where he was sitting just moments before, my eyes meeting Karen's and noting that she is barely even attempting to hide her smirk. I know without a doubt that I will hear about this later—hell, it will be a miracle if she can make it to the time Andrew leaves before starting in on the teasing that I know is coming. But somehow, I am still capable of pushing aside my apprehension over that very fact, at least for the time being, my attention instead shifting to the plate I have just set upon the coffee table before I force myself to look at Andrew directly.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to," Andrew replies, returning to his own seat on the sofa with a mug of coffee in hand, and placing his free hand upon my thigh for a moment, seemingly oblivious to how the gesture causes me to tense as a result, "That, and your roommate might have mentioned you usually don't ever have time for breakfast on your own."

"I take it now you're going to start the lecture on how breakfast is the most important meal of the day?"

"If you hadn't just predicted my move before I could even make it—"

"I'm good like that," I quip, managing a faint smile despite the fact that I still cannot shake the tension that seems to have taken up residence in every muscle I possess, "Or at least I try to be."

"You succeed."

"I'm glad someone thinks so."

"Well I can't be the first person that's told you that," Andrew persists, his expression quizzical as he glances from me, to Karen, one brow lifted in obvious surprise that I am shaking my head almost immediately, an exasperated half-smile crossing my features for a moment as I realize Karen is only too prepared to add her own input whether I want her to or not.

"You aren't. She just doesn't like to listen."

"Hey! I listen!"

"I'd like to know to who!" Karen exclaims, folding both arms across her chest, and giving me a look that almost has me laughing out loud before she is leaning back against the cushions of the sofa, and feigning a pout, "It sure as hell isn't me."

"Well clearly you missed the part of the life lesson where they specifically instructed us not to listen to our roommates."

"I must have decided to skip that lecture."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," I tease, sending Karen a wink, and finding that I am at ease enough to allow myself to lean back in the chair I occupy and divert my attention to the plate in my lap for the first time since I had received it, "Rebel."

"You know it."

"Have you two always been like this?" Andrew inquires, an easy grin falling across his lips, and causing his eyes to twinkle just a bit, as though the fact that I am participating in banter willingly with both him, and my roommate, is the most amazing thing in the world, "With the banter, and all, I mean."

"Oh absolutely," Karen replies, sharing a smile with me, before returning her attention back to Andrew, and leaning forward to place both elbows upon her knees as though the act will allow her to learn more about the man sitting in our den than simple conversation, alone, "To anyone who doesn't know us, we're a huge pain in the ass."

"Maybe to people that do know us, too, Karen—"

"Maybe so."

"I hardly think that's the case," Andrew counters, a slight laugh escaping as he takes note of the raised brow Karen and I give him in tandem as evidence of our skepticism over his claim, "Anyone who says otherwise doesn't deserve either of you, anyway."

"Ooh. I like him."

"Karen—"

"What? I do," My roommate states, making a show of a shrug for my benefit before turning her attention back towards Andrew, and giving him a winning smile before her chin comes to rest upon her palm, "And how did the two of you get to be—well—whatever it is that you are?"

"Jesus, Karen," I exhale, my cheeks flushing as I glance down at the plate in my lap, my brow furrowing as I take up the task of investigating the eggs and bacon on its surface, and try to ignore the sudden racing of my heart as I wait for Andrew to reply, so that I will not have to, myself.

"First day at work," Andrew supplies, flashing me another smile as we both inadvertently travel back to our very first meeting, the flush still remaining upon my cheeks as he turns back to Karen to elaborate further, "This one quite literally ran into me head-first around a corner."

"We were busy!"

"And you were, like always, trying to take on all the work yourself. You were carrying so many gauze pads and suture kits you couldn't even see over the pile in your own arms."

"What can I say? Sometimes if you want the job done right, you've got to do it yourself."

"Something tells me that this particular time, you accepted help, though?" Karen questions, one corner of her mouth twitching as she does a rather poor job of concealing her amusement over my almost instantaneous retort in response to Andrew's teasing, "I mean, if help came at me looking like that, I'd jump at the chance to accept."

"She did, eventually. Spent the majority of the shift bossing me around, though," Andrew says, pausing just long enough to take a swig of his coffee, before turning back towards me, a subtle smirk on his lips as he realizes he is about to effectively interrogate someone with a mouth full of egg, "Remind me, what was it that made you realize I knew what I was doing, too?"

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Oh I do. But that discovery wasn't what made you figure I had a chance at not killing one of our patients that day."

"You're really going to make me spell it out?"

"I wouldn't be the 'asshole' you so lovingly accused me of being if I didn't, now would I?"

Making sure he sees the roll of the eyes that I have prepared in response to his assertion, I carefully finish chewing and swallowing the egg that I have so recently taken a bite of, my hand reaching for the mug of coffee that rests on the table beside my plate so that I can take a sip before deigning to speak. I know that it is childish—that some part of my reluctance to give in to what Andrew seems to want so fiercely has absolutely nothing to do with professional pride, and instead centers almost exclusively around a sudden need to regain control of a situation that he appears to have already taken over, himself.

He had come into my apartment—won over my roommate in the space of what appeared to be mere seconds. And for some inexplicable reason, I felt all but compelled to reassert my own dominance, as crazy as that sounded, in my own space.

If that made me a petty child, instead of a well-functioning adult, then I guess I really didn't give a damn.

"A good doctor never gives away her secret, Andrew," I quip, aware of Karen's almost immediate snort of amusement, just as I am aware of how the target of my little retort has started shaking his head in what appears to be both amusement and resignation, "The whole 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you' thing, you know?"

"Is that a threat against me, or Karen?"

"If you have to ask, you'll never know."

Taking Andrew's resultant silence as willingness to let the matter slide, at least for now, I use that opportunity to stand and grab my half-emptied plate and coffee mug from the table so that I can take them both back into the kitchen, all the while aware of how Andrew follows my movements with a precision that is almost unsettling the entire time. Rather more gratefully than I truly wish to admit, I find that I am throwing myself into the task of searching for a Tupperware container to hold the remainder of my eggs, and then the cleaning of my plate before I place it in the dishwasher, as well, my focus inverting onto my own thoughts until I find that I am jolted out of my reverie by the sensation of someone's arm brushing against my own where I stand at the counter.

"Easy, killer—it's just me," Karen states, her expression indicating some level of concern over how I flinch as a result of the inadvertent contact, my eyes flown wide in obvious shock at not being alone. For the briefest of moments, I glance back out into the den, in hopes of ascertaining whether or not Andrew has taken any notice of my apparent distraction, and my subsequent reaction to being pulled out of my own internal musings. But despite how fervently he was watching me only moments before, in this particular moment, he appears to be engrossed almost completely in his cell phone, the muscles in my shoulders relaxing almost automatically after I make the discovery, and find myself capable of turning back towards Karen as I realize she is addressing me once again.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Why am I not convinced?"

"Because you have trust issues?"

"Not about this," Karen replies, following the line of what my gaze had been pointed to just moments before, her brow furrowing almost immediately as she watches Andrew scrolling through his phone screen for a moment before turning towards me once again, and lowering her voice in hopes that only I will be able to hear, "You need me to get him to leave?"

"I—no. No, I don't think so."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure," I promise her, forcing a reluctant smile to my lips in the hopes that she will take my response as the truth, in spite of how even I am not fully certain that it is exactly that, "We're good."

"Okay. Because I can totally kick his ass if I have to. Just say the word."

Unable to resist the urge to laugh in response to the unmistakable ferocity in her statement, I set about the task of placing the lid on top of the Tupperware container I have since filled with my leftover eggs, and moving to place it inside the refrigerator for later use, the sudden creaking of the sofa giving me an indication that Andrew has decided to get up causing me to turn back towards the den while simultaneously shutting the door of the refrigerator in my wake. I can tell in only a few seconds that something has caused his mood to shift, the playful expression that had been almost a permanent fixture on his features having faded away to be replaced with something far more foreboding. I am prepared to ask him about it—to inquire about whatever it is that seems to have dampened his mood so significantly in so little time. But before I get the chance, I find that the effort is rendered completely unwarranted, his eyes meeting mine for only a moment before I realize he is stowing his phone back in his jeans pocket, and simultaneously reaching for his keys that he had placed on the kitchen counter the evening prior.

"Hospital needs us to come in ASAP," He begins, watching me for any sort of reaction that I might give in response to his assertion with as much intent as though Karen has disappeared in a puff of smoke and left us alone once again, "You need time to shower?"

"No. No, let me just change into some clean clothes, and I'll be right behind you."

"You can always ride with me—"

"I think it might be better, all things considered, if I take my own car," I counter, aware of Andrew's slumped shoulders in response to my statement, and yet finding myself entirely incapable of giving in to him again, after allowing him into my home the night before, "Don't worry, I won't bail on you."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Lex."

"From where I'm standing, you don't need to be worried about anything."

"Well when did I ever listen to you on that?" Andrew inquires, fiddling with his car keys for only a moment, before he is pushing away from the countertop, and resettling his gaze on my features once more, "I don't mind giving you a ride in."

"Trust me, Andrew, I'll manage on my own. But I appreciate the offer, all the same."

Whether he wants to or not, my colleague seems to accept my statement at face value, at least for the time being, his features settling into some semblance of calm as he heads toward the apartment door, and reaches for the handle in one fluid motion. For a moment, I wonder if he is just going to leave like this, without saying one more word to either Karen or myself in parting. But before I can figure out whether that potential reality bothers me or not, I realize that Andrew is turning back to glance at us both with a faint smile turning up at the corners of his mouth, though I am not blind enough to realize that it does not reach his eyes, all the same.

"Thank you both. For—for letting me share your space," He says, opening the apartment door, and stepping half-way over the threshold before he finishes speaking, his tone slightly less terse than it had been just moments before.

"See you in a few, Lex."

"Yeah. See you in a few."

Whatever my misgivings may be regarding the reality of Andrew's presence this morning, and the obvious inferences that Karen has already made, if the slight grin on her lips is any indication, I am more than a little grateful for the reprieve presented by my sudden need to get back to work, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip for just a moment before I am stepping around Karen, and heading towards my room once more.

"You do know that just because you have to go to work doesn't mean I won't expect details when you get back," She calls after me, amusement coloring her tone, and prompting me to emit a small laugh that I had not entirely been expecting as I holler over my shoulder to reply in kind.

"So you think—"

"So I know."

No matter how selfish the desire might be, I suddenly find myself wishing with all my heart that some sort of reporting emergency will call Karen away from the apartment to prevent the inevitable inquisition that will follow upon my return home, my hands rifling through my closet until I find a suitable shirt and pair of jeans to don, all the while knowing that I am not about to get out of her interrogation that easily…

After all, when has life ever been that convenient?

…

Blinding fluorescent lights cause my eyes to water as I blink them open bit by bit, and attempt to ascertain where I am. I am aware that I seem to be resting on a thin mattress—that an equally thin sheet stretches across my legs, restricting my movement as I attempt to wiggle my toes. But almost as soon as I try to move, using my elbows to push my torso up in order to get a better look at the room around me, I find I am being pressed back against the mattress in mere seconds, a low whimper escaping before I can fully stop it as the movement and the gentle pressure of the hand that pushes me back causes a bloom of pain to spread from my side near my hip, and my shoulder until the separate spasms converge in the center of my chest.

"Easy, sweetheart. You don't need to be moving around just yet," A cool, feminine voice assures me, the sound pulling my gaze towards the direction from which it had come while more tears blur my vision, "Why don't you tell me your name."

"My—my name?"

"If you're feeling up to it," The woman amends, something not that far from pity coloring her tone, and causing me to lift an arm to bat at the tears slipping unchecked from my eyes, only to find the act thwarted by the pull of the tube that is fed into a vein in my hand with a needle and held in place with a few transparent pieces of tape. For a moment, that fact holds my attention, my gaze transfixed upon my hand as though the tube sticking out of it is the most fascinating thing in the world. But then, as it always does, reality rears its ugly head in the space of a few seconds, my brow furrowing as the lingering throb of the pain at my shoulder and side reminds me of why I am here in the first place.

"I—my brother. Nate, he's—"

"Sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry," The woman replies, her wide blue eyes locking with my own as she reaches forward to smooth some of my hair away from my forehead, only to find that I am flinching away in spite of the renewed spasms of pain the act provokes from my injuries as a result. I know what she is about to say. I know that she is about to inform me of something that I already suspect, though I will never be ready to have it put into words. And so I do the only thing I can do, in that moment, in a last ditch effort at self-preservation, my voice trembling in spite of my desire to avoid it as I direct a glare at the woman who has now perched on the edge of my bed as though she is the one responsible for all of life's pain and disappointment.

"You're lying."

"Miss—"

"You're lying," I repeat, as though the bitterness that is so apparent in my words has any chance of reversing the obvious truth of my situation, "He can't—he can't be dead. He can't be."

"We did everything we could to revive him. But his injuries were just too severe—"

"No. That's not possible."

"Ma'am—"

"It's not possible!" I persist, suddenly determined to get myself out of this damned bed that seems determined to hold me prisoner against my will, the hand that has somehow successfully managed to fling the thin coverlet over my legs to the side moving to its twin in hopes of dislodging the IV that maintains its residence in my vein, "I'm going to see him now."

"Sweetheart, you need to stay in bed—"

"What I need is to see my brother!"

In lieu of a response to my apparent determination, the woman reaches across the handrail of my bed to press at the emergency call button, her expression shifting from the sympathetic mask she had worn just moments prior to one that was nothing but business in two seconds, flat. Some small voice of reason lingering in the back of my mind tells me that I should calm down. That I should listen to what she has to say, and accept the comfort that she so clearly wished to provide before my defiance got in the way. But instinct all but insists that I refuse to remain still, my fingernails scraping at the skin of my hand as they curl around the tubing and yank the IV out of the vein while my companion simultaneously hollers out to anyone and everyone standing in the hallway beyond my room to enlist them for help.

"A little help in here!"

A man in a firmly pressed white jacket enters the room mere seconds after her harried call, his brow furrowed as he steps towards the bed, and looks me over like I am nothing more than a specimen beneath a microscope in the lab. Almost immediately, he is moving around the bed to stand opposite the woman who has now taken it upon herself to begin rifling through the cart situated just beside the door, the rough pressure of his hands pressing me back against the mattress provoking another whimper from between my parted lips as I struggle to resist the strength inherent in his larger frame. I can tell he is saying something—likely anything he can in an effort at getting through to me and bringing me back into some semblance of what he might like to call sanity. But no matter how that small voice at the back of my mind urges me to comply, I cannot give up the fight—not yet—

At least not until I hear him use the word 'restraints' through the fog of my jumbling thoughts, and my world narrows once more into the reality of the present moment while my heart thunders in my ears.

"No—no, I don't need—"

"They're for your own good, Miss Hanson," The man assures, his expression clearly meant to be reassuring, despite the fact that I can only see it as a threat to prevent me from obtaining what I want the most. In this moment, no matter how irrational, I know that the only thing that might stand a chance at calming my racing heart and wayward nerves is the steady presence of my brother by my side…

"Nate! Nate!" I practically scream, my eyes suddenly landing on the woman as she turns from the med cart, a syringe held in her hand, and my panic intensifies ten-fold, "No—no, please—I just want my brother—"

"What the hell are you doing to her?"

Convinced for only a moment that Nate has heard my fervent pleas for help, and come to my aid as he always has before, I find my body flooded with relief, my muscles relaxing as my head snaps over to look at the door. Renewed tears have sprung to my eyes as a result of the man's hands practically pinning me to the bed, and how my own efforts to get free have pulled at the already sensitive skin surrounding my injuries, and so the figure standing in the doorway is significantly blurred as a result. Just for a moment, I am almost convinced that it is Nate—that the harshness implicit in his inquiry is the result of the overprotectiveness that he has always felt he needed to display to anyone within a five-mile radius of my location. But as that figure moves further into the room, I am forced to acknowledge that the newcomer is taller than my brother—leaner, too. A realization that has my spirits sinking, at least until I can feel the coolness of a needle beginning to press against my skin, and my arm wrenches away almost of its own accord.

"Miss Hanson, you need to hold still—"

"You need to get that needle away from her. Now," The newcomer orders, the familiar quality to his voice forcing me to blink my eyes rather furiously in an effort to clear my vision so I can confirm my sudden suspicion while simultaneously continuing my observation of the woman at the side of my bed, who looks now more than ever to be bound and determined to sink whatever is in that needle she holds into my veins no matter what the cost, "And you should take your hands off of her if you know what's good for you, Doc…"

"I'm trying to help her."

"Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing."

"I don't think I need to justify my medical decision-making to a civilian," The man who has been pressing me back into the mattress responds, abandoning his hold on my shoulders in favor of turning to face the newcomer—Billy—head-on, "Miss Hanson needs to be restrained until we can determine she is no longer a threat to her own recovery."

"So what, you shoot her up, and tie her to the bed?"

"If that's what it takes to see to her safety, yes. Just as we will do what we can to ensure her visitors are limited to immediate family, until her recovery progresses."

"I am her family," Billy persists, his tone brooking no argument, and causing me to send a silent prayer heavenward for his presence as he steps up to the man until they are toe to toe, his expression all but daring the older man to deny him the right to remain in my room, "So I suggest you leave, and give me a moment to see if I can calm her down."

"Sir, we have everything under control—"

"I don't think you do."

"Sir—"

"Look, the only way you're getting me out of here is if you have me physically removed," Billy states, his hands finding their way into his jacket pockets as though he desires to put forth a display of ease, despite the tension that is practically palpable in the room, particularly as his gaze shifts to the nurse who has once again moved to reach for my arm with needle in tow, "And you are gonna keep that damned thing away from her if you know what's good for you."

A moment's silence passes after his remark, during which time I find that I am willingly shrinking back against the mattress, while the man standing beside my bed appears to weigh his options. For just a split second, Billy's gaze meets my own, the slight shake of his head stalling whatever words I had planned to utter in hopes of getting the man to allow him to stay. And in spite of the fact that I am literally aching for some form of human connection—although I am dreading the doctor taking the foolish route, and deciding to go toe to toe with Billy and force him to leave, I remain silent, biting at my lip so fiercely that the metallic taste of blood registers upon my tongue before I realize that Billy appears to have won, if the curt jerk of the head the man gives to the woman opposite him is any indication…

Before I know it, they have both moved through the door to my room to stand in the hall beyond, the door shutting behind them in time with the ragged sob that forces its way from my chest before I can stop it, and I find myself almost immediately scooped into Billy's arms as he settles himself on my bed in such a way that he does not jostle me unnecessarily despite his apparent urge to hold me close.

Although he is not my brother, he is enough, the strength inherent in his embrace causing me to burrow still closer to his frame, while my shoulders shake, and tears streak down my cheeks…

…

Startled out of my reverie by the sound of the charge nurse, Deb, calling my name for what must have been the third or fourth time given the aggravation in her voice, I find that I am ripped out of the hospital room in my distant memory, and planted instead in the center of the bustling emergency department with the cries of various patients ringing in my ears. A faint breeze from an overhead air duct wafts against my skin, the sudden chill that it provokes on the skin of my cheeks alerting me to the fact that somehow, I have started to cry—and although I am aware of how Deb must have already seen the tracks as they roamed down my skin, I find that I am batting all evidence of them away in an instant, and clearing my throat before I square my shoulders and prepare to act as though everything is simply business, as usual.

"Sorry, Deb. Got sidetracked by my own thoughts for a moment, there," I explain, sensing just by one look at her expression that she does not buy my attempt at subterfuge for one single second, "What do you need?"

"Got a new patient rolling in off the ambo, now. Looking like a case of pneumonia, and aggravated psychoses."

"We keep taking on new cases, we'll run out of room down here. Any plans on turnaround for patients being sent home or admitted?"

"You and I both know that decision's not on us, Alexis."

"Oh how I wish that wasn't true," I reply, managing a faint smile for Deb's benefit, and moving to stand at her side as she begins walking towards the ambulance bay, "We know anything else about our impending patient?"

"Only that she's coming from a state-funded facility. Been there a number of years, and this is the first time she's actually done more than lie dormant in her bed."

"She have a name?"

"Naturally," Deb confirms, glancing at the obvious furrow in my brow for a moment, and electing not to comment on its cause, as her attention, and my own as well, becomes effectively diverted to the sight of the small boned woman being wheeled in through the wide open doors on a stretcher, with a thin white blanket covering her lower body, "Everyone has a name, sweets."

Rolling my eyes at the use of the familiar nickname, I reach for the clipboard resting at the foot of the stretcher on instinct, my eyes grazing over the first page attached for as much information as I can glean before coming to any sort of decision on a preliminary treatment plan. Without even being aware of it, I begin to move alongside the stretcher, though the entirety of my attention still rests upon the clipboard clutched in my hands—and then I see it. The name of the patient I will be treating that causes a sudden bolt of dread to clutch at my heart while my steps grind to a halt and I utter a muted oath before I can fully stop it from escaping my lips.

"Shit—"

Patient Name: Carla Russo.

…


	12. Manipulation

"You okay?" Deb inquires, stepping up to my side, and placing a hand upon my shoulder that causes me to flinch, and nearly drop the clipboard that I have clutched so tightly in my hand that the edges of it are digging into my palms. Of course, I know that she is only acting from concern. That she has likely come to the supposition that I know this woman personally, and might require a moment to collect myself before tending to her care. But the reality of the situation is far different, in spite of my desire to think of this woman as another ordinary patient, and although I would do anything to ignore it, I am powerless to stop the sensation of dread from stealing over me at the thought of what I know I will eventually have to do as a part of providing routine care—

I am going to have to call this woman's emergency contact, and I can only imagine how that will go down.

Still, no matter how badly I may wish to use my own misgivings as an excuse to simply shirk my duties and retreat into some semblance of safety once again, I have a duty to do—I swore an oath, and I cannot bring myself to break it now. And so, inasmuch as my heart is still pounding, and my nerves are every bit as edgy as if the emergency contact in question is standing right before me, I force myself to square my shoulders and rearrange my expression into something more befitting of the doctor I know I should be, my voice only cracking just a bit as I finally face Deb head-on and manage a belated reply.

"I'm good. I'm good, Deb, thank you," I begin, forcing a smile to my face, and hoping that it will seem at least somewhat sincere, before I am turning my attention back to my patient, and stepping closer for a cursory investigation, "You said she had pneumonia—has she been started on any antibiotics?"

"None indicated in the chart. Just your run of the mill maintenance antidepressants and antipsychotics."

"Any idea how long she's been sick?"

"Not a clue," Deb replies, her expression softening in response to the frown I throw her way, while she simultaneously moves closer toward the bed to help me in getting a better idea of our patient's vitals, "You know these state-run facilities, sweets. They barely provide care for their patients on a good day, and there ain't many of those sorts of days roaming around for the taking."

"Alright. Let's start her on broad-spectrum antibiotics, then, and get some labs drawn," I instruct, reaching on instinct for my new patient's hand once I realize she has started to stir a bit, with the occasional whimper punctuating her former run of silence, "You're going to be okay, Carla. We've got you, alright?"

"You have any leads on next of kin?" Deb asks me then, effectively startling me from my apparent fixation upon the way my patient's thin fingers have suddenly latched upon my wrist as though it is a life raft.

"I—yeah. Her son."

"Want me to make the call?"

"No. No, I think I should do it," I state, using my free hand to gently extricate the other from Carla's grasp, and managing another faint smile for her benefit, although I am not entirely certain she takes note of the gesture at all, "Can you cover me for a minute while I go do that?"

"Sure thing. Take all the time you need."

Nodding my thanks, I spend one more moment in simply observing Deb while she takes up the task of prepping an IV while another nurse joins her in hooking our patient up to the monitors that will keep track of her blood pressure and other vitals, before I am turning and heading down the hall towards a vacant conference room I know will likely be unoccupied at this time of the day. I would be lying if I were to pretend that a part of me was not hoping that my call would go straight to voicemail, the coil of dread that has taken up residence in the pit of my stomach seeming to suggest that it would be far easier to simply leave Billy a message regarding this latest development, instead of speaking with him directly. But inasmuch as I am not particularly looking forward to the prospect of broaching a subject that is sensitive, even in the best of times, I know that if I keep this to myself, I only risk damaging whatever sort of relationship Billy and I have to begin with…

I suppose I need to simply start treating this as the proverbial 'ripping off the band-aid' scenario, and get it over with before my nerves persuade me to delay the inevitable.

Unexpectedly steeled by such a thought, I find that I am squaring my shoulders, and scrolling through the contacts on my cell until I come up with Billy's number, my hand only trembling just a bit as I press the button that will initiate a call, and bring the device up to my ear. For a moment, I find that I am content to simply listen to the ringing on the other end of the line, my breathing surprisingly even, in spite of how I still feel the slightest bit of apprehension regarding what it is I am about to do. But of course, as soon as I register the fact that the line has connected, all of that falls away, the slightly scratchy sound of Billy's voice as he answers the call causing my heart to seize within my throat for a moment, regardless of how hard I have tried to keep myself calm.

"Lex? That you?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, Billy, it's me," I confirm, silently cursing the way in which my voice seems to crack mid-sentence, no matter how hard I try to avoid it, "Can you—can you talk for a minute?"

"Always, when the person I'm talking to is you."

"Billy this is serious," I protest, suddenly frustrated with how his remark has caused one corner of my mouth to turn up in slight amusement, despite the fact that the timing is inappropriate, to say the least, "I—how far are you from coming home?"

"Why? Is—are you hurt?" Billy demands, all good-natured teasing rapidly evaporating from his tone, only to be replaced by a sudden harshness that has me half-tempted to back-pedal before I can do or say anything to make him more upset than he already is. But before I can fully commit to doing that, I register the sound of a faint sigh coming from the other end of the line, my brow furrowing a bit as I realize that my silence has obviously alerted Billy to my apparent discomfort, and prompted him to amend his words almost immediately thereafter, "Lex, if you're hurt I'll come right back. You know that. What I'm doing here can wait."

"It's not me. It's—"

"It's what?"

"It's your mom," I blurt, knowing that if I delay the confession, such as it is, for any longer, I will likely lose my nerve, "She came into the hospital today, and—"

"And what?"

"It's pneumonia, Billy. From the looks of things, the facility she was in did nothing at all to treat it, and my guess is the infection sparked an acute psychosis, as well."

The silence that lingers after my hurried admission only serves to increase my mounting uncertainty, my teeth coming out to worry at my lower lip while I scrabble around for something to say to ease the obvious tension that my words have provoked. In truth, I have absolutely no clue how Billy feels about his mother on the whole, our relative avoidance of the subject altogether leaving me remarkably ignorant in terms of how best to handle our current situation. But before I can come to terms with that lack of knowledge, and the vulnerability it leaves me with as a result, I find that I am spared the trouble of coming up with anything else to say, the sudden sound of Billy's voice causing my pulse to jump even as it rather effectively forces my attention back to the present in one fell swoop.

"I can make it back in a few hours," He says, his words surprisingly neutral now, in direct contrast to what they were mere moments before, "How—how bad is it?"

"Right now, I think we can afford to be optimistic. I've got her on antibiotics, and we'll manage any other problems as they arise."

"Okay. And you? You're okay?"

"Of course I am," I confirm, perching on the edge of the conference table, and running my free hand through my hair before exhaling in a rush, and hurrying to say what I have wanted to almost since our call began, "Billy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to interrupt whatever it is that you're doing to tell you this."

"Don't, Lex. Don't apologize. You just did what you had to do."

"Then why the hell does it feel like I only made things worse?"

"Because you put yourself through guilt trips like it's a damned Olympic sport," Billy quips, the laugh we both share doing me some good, regardless of how short-lived it happens to be, "We'll talk more when I get back in town, okay? Keep your head up."

"Will do, boss."

The soft snort of amusement Billy gives in response to my instantaneous reply is the only manner of goodbye I am going to receive, it seems, the line going dead not long after the sound registers in my mind. For a moment, I simply remain where I am, my phone held tightly in my hand as though it is the only comfort I am capable of finding in the situation I currently face. But before I can allow myself to become too distracted by the implications behind my firm hold on the device, I find that I am once again startled back to the present by the sound of a sharp knock upon the conference room door, my eyes flicking to meet Deb's when she pokes her head inside, a look of something not that far off from pity upon her features as she glances at me for a moment in silence before she speaks.

"Sorry to bother you, sweets. Just got another patient rolling in, that could use your attention."

"I'll be right there."

I suppose those clever people who come up with slogans that are so popular they become a cliché were right. There really was no rest for the wicked.

...

An hour or two later I find myself suppressing a yawn while standing on one of the covered walkways that overlooks the main vestibule of the hospital below, my fingers curled around a warm Styrofoam cup of coffee while I lean against the railing, and attempt to exhale as slowly as possible. It was an old trick of my brother's, whenever things got too tense either in the field, or with the memories he encountered once he returned home, focusing on each little bit of air that left his body, and trying to connect that to whatever anxieties were plaguing him so that they could depart along with the air exhaled from his lungs. And in spite of my own initial doubts when he had first mentioned it to me, I find the technique surprisingly effective now, my shoulders relaxing for what feels like the first time in ages as I manage a sip of the coffee in my hand, and suppress a grin at how counter-intuitive downing caffeine might seem when one is trying to relax.

While allowing the liquid to gradually warm my body from the inside out, I find myself once again permitting my mind to stray back to the upcoming face-to-face with Billy, while the fingers of one hand shift to pick at the sticker the barista placed on my coffee cup in evidence of my lingering distress. I would be lying if I tried to pretend that I was prepared for seeing him again, particularly in light of our current circumstances. But no matter my own misgivings, I know that I owe it to him to be as honest and forthcoming as I can be…

After how he stood by me when my brother died, I can't possibly do anything less than the same for him, now, no matter what comes down the road from here on out.

Steeled, at least a little bit, by the thought, I find myself capable of downing the rest of my coffee in one go, my throat only burning in protest for a moment before the rejuvenating liquid begins its work, and I turn to head towards the trash can stowed nearby, beneath the railing. I know that even this small bit of a break might have been too much, with how busy our emergency department seems to be today. And although a small part of me feels more than a little guilty for even taking five minutes to gather my thoughts, I am not entirely willing to regret it, the fact that I feel even a little bit refreshed in spite of everything that is going on serving as enough to move me past that guilt, and persuade me to head back towards the emergency room with more confidence than I feel I really deserve.

Of course, such a feeling only lasts about as long as it takes for me to get back to the emergency room proper, my steps faltering as I begin to head towards the room in which I can check on Carla Russo, only to find that Andrew is standing beside her door, an unreadable expression plastered on his face as he watches my approach.

"I leave you alone for two seconds, and you get yourself involved in another mess, huh?"

"A mess? I don't know—I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, coming to a stop a few steps away from where Andrew stands, and noting how he glances at the writing on the erasable placard outside the patient's room as though the name is something distasteful he found on the bottom of his shoe before he speaks.

"I think you do, Lex. The last name on that placard is a little too coincidental."

"What does it matter? A patient is a patient, Andrew. The minute we stop believing that is the minute we shouldn't be doctors anymore."

"Yeah. A patient is a patient. But that doesn't mean you have to throw yourself into a case that walks you right back into his arms."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"It's what I know it is!" Andrew exclaims, the vehemence in his tone causing me to jump in spite of my desire to avoid it, while he simultaneously moves forward despite the fact that I almost immediately take a step back of my own in response, "I think it would be in your best interests if you got yourself assigned to another case."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Seriously."

"Well I'm not going to do that," I retort, once again taking another step back as Andrew moves towards me, and squaring my shoulders in hopes that it will make me seem far more likely to be an obstacle than Andrew seems to believe I will be, if the expression on his face is any indication, "I started her plan of care. I'm going to see it finished."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"I don't really give a damn whether you do, or not!"

"Maybe you should."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because Doctor Rawlins already spoke to me about your interest in Miss Russo's case, and we came to the conclusion you may not be operating objectively at the present time."

Whirling in response to the unexpected new voice, I find my jaw dropping open in shock before I can stop it, as I look from the newcomer's impassive features, and back to Andrew's for a moment in open surprise that he has gone so far to get his way. Vaguely, I find myself wondering if my rather poor reaction to his advances are the reason behind this entire affair, something about the idea of him only behaving this way to protect me not sitting right even in spite of my hope that my initial suspicion is wrong. But regardless of what I may or may not believe his reasons are, at this point, I am all but determined to attempt to rectify the situation as best I can, a slow breath escaping my lungs as I attempt to force as much calm into my words as I can while I turn to face Andrew once again.

"You called the chief?"

"I'm only trying to help you, Alexis—"

"Right. It definitely does not look that way, from where I'm sitting," I hiss, my aggravation only seeming to spike as I take note of Andrew's obviously non-plussed expression, and force myself to turn from him, towards the chief so that I might attempt to amend this situation however possible, "Sir, I am more than capable of taking care of this patient on my own. There's no need for you to go to the trouble of finding another physician—"

"I already have," The chief interrupts, his features taking on a look that is remarkably pitying, though he does not seem moved enough to let that sway him from his decision in any way, "Doctor Rawlins will take over Miss Russo's case for the time-being. I'm sure there are more than enough other patients to keep you occupied, instead, Doctor Hanson."

"But sir—"

"No, Doctor. My decision is final. See to your other patients, or I'll recommend you take the rest of the day to recollect your thoughts."

Stunned into silence by the unexpected firmness in my superior's tone, I find I am powerless to do anything other than nod in agreement while simultaneously taking a step back until my back bumps against the wall beside Carla Russo's room, and the chief passes by without another word. In truth, I am not entirely certain I could pinpoint the exact magnitude of my emotions in this particular moment, even if I tried. But in spite of that, I am at least cognoscente enough to recognize the anger that rises to the forefront as Andrew finishes his hushed conversation with our boss, and the older man meanders off not very long thereafter.

Whether I want to or not, it seems I am all but determined to confront him for his meddling, even if that very act might just prove that I am not as objective as I would like to think…

"That was way over the line, Andrew," I begin, watching as the man who has so clearly decided to make himself my adversary absorbs my words without so much as a flinch, and pursing my lips while the fingers of one hand curl into a fist so that my fingernails dig into the skin of my palm, "You can question my judgment all you want, but getting our boss to second-guess my ability to do my job? It's too much."

"Too much? I prefer to think of it as exactly enough," Andrew retorts, the coldness inherent in his tone causing a shiver to roll through me, though I do what I can to avoid letting any evidence of that minute movement show in my expression, "You're not doing yourself any favors if you risk your career on a case that hits too close to home."

"The way I see it, the only one who's risking my career is you."

"Well I'm sorry you feel that way, Alexis. I'm only trying to help you."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you," I quip, once again pulling away from Andrew's outstretched hand, and turning on a heel to walk away from him before he can make any more excuses for his actions thus far. Of course, I know, on some level, that my protests will be futile, despite how every instinct I possess all but demands that I refuse to back down without a fight. But even that realization is not entirely enough to dissuade me from deciding on a whim to turn back towards Andrew just as he is preparing to enter Carla Russo's room, my voice startlingly even, in spite of the fact that my emotions are more jangled now than they were when she first arrived.

"If anything happens to her under your care, Andrew, I swear to God I will never forgive you."

Whether Andrew takes any note of my words, or not, I am all but determined to continue to follow up on my former patient's case, and I'll be damned if I do not make sure he knows it every step of the way…

…


	13. Rough Handling

Some hours later, after my altercation with Andrew, I find myself perching on one of the window seats that can be found on every floor of the hospital overlooking the courtyard below, my teeth absently chewing at the thumbnail of my right hand while my eyes stare out the window without really seeing a thing. In the time since Carla Russo's arrival, and my subsequent removal from her case, it has started to rain, the drops pattering against the window hardly helping to jolt me from my thoughts. In truth, I am still unbelievably pissed off that Andrew went behind my back to the chief, no matter how, in the back of my mind, I know that I probably would've suspected his own ability to remain impartial if it was his own family on the line. But then again, that logic would only really make me feel better if Carla really was a relative of my own, and not just the mother of a very dear friend…

And that, above all else, is why I suppose I cannot simply push aside my anger in favor of seeing Andrew's side of things completely, a low groan leaving me as I duck my head down to drag my hands through my hair, only to find that I am jumping in the next second as a sleep-graveled voice reaches my ears.

"You know, you may want to consider sleeping every once and a while. Irritability is one of the first signs of exhaustion."

"Jesus, Billy," I breathe, all the tension that seems to have ingrained itself in every muscle I possess leaving me in a rush, such that as soon as I try and stand to go to him, my knees nearly buckle beneath my weight, "Anyone ever tell you sneaking up on people isn't polite?"

"I never really listened to any of them," Billy quips, closing the distance between us in mere seconds, and pulling me into an embrace as though sensing that I need it, perhaps even more than he does, even given the circumstances that brought him here to begin with, "You on break?"

"Yep."

"And when was the last time you slept?"

"Last night, if you must know," I inform, pulling my cheek away from where it seems to have instinctively come to rest upon Billy's chest, so that I can peer up at him with narrowed eyes, "I could ask you the same thing, you know."

"And you know me well enough to know I wouldn't give you a straight answer even if you did."

"Remind me why I talk to you again?"

"Because you love me?"

"Against all my better judgment—"

"But that's not a no," Billy persists, smirking a bit in response to my almost immediate roll of the eyes, and loosening his hold on me until only one arm rests around my shoulders to keep me tucked securely against his side, "So—how's Mom?"

"She—last I looked she was fine. Stable," I begin, swallowing against the resurgence of apprehension I am feeling at the prospect of being brought to the confession of exactly what has transpired relating to his mother's care before I am really ready to broach the subject myself, "On antibiotics, and short-term meds to take care of some of the symptoms of her agitation."

"So, you know, then."

"Her medical history? Yeah. I—I know."

Something in Billy's expression tells me all I want to know about exactly how he feels regarding his mother's condition, the tightening of his jaw serving as ample incentive for me to squirm out from beneath his arm so that I can come to a stop in front of him to look him in the eye. It takes a moment for him to return the look, brown eyes straying over everything that rests in the hallway behind me before he has no other choice but to look at me directly. And despite what I may have expected, what I see in those eyes very nearly takes my breath away, my teeth coming to worry at my lower lip for just a moment as the full force of his uncertainty damn near steals the breath from my lungs.

For a man who keeps his emotions so carefully controlled, the brief appearance of genuine regret that passes over his features cuts through me far more than I dare to admit aloud.

"Listen, Billy, this doesn't change a thing between us," I assure, reaching for one of his hands so that I can give it a reassuring squeeze, and finding myself slightly pleased that he seems to eagerly thread his fingers through my own in response, "It's not like either one of us has what you could call a perfect upbringing behind them."

"No, I guess we don't."

"So—you're admitting I'm right."

"Only if you're going to stop rubbing it in," Billy retorts, using his hold on my hand to tug me back into step beside him while a tentative smile curls up one corner of his mouth, "You're a real grade-A pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, you love me anyway, don't you?"

"Against my better judgment."

Unable to resist the laugh that breaks free in response to his repetition of my own words mere moments after I said them myself, I fall back into what amounts to a comfortable silence as we continue walking back towards one of the main halls of the hospital, hand in hand. If I am to be honest with myself, his steady presence at my side is almost enough to have me forgetting everything that has happened to have me on edge—almost—but of course as soon as the thought comes to mind, Billy is breaking the silence between us once again, his next words causing my blood to freeze in my veins as I come to a stop and drop his hand as though I have been burned.

"You going to take me to see her, then?"

"I—well, that's the—the other thing I need to talk to you about," I stammer, glancing down at the toes of my shoes for a moment, only to find that I am forced to look back at Billy as he steps just close enough to reach forward and tuck his finger beneath my chin.

"What is it, Lex? What aren't you telling me?"

"I can't—I can't take you to see your mom."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I've been taken off her case."

"Why?" Billy demands, dropping his hand back to his side, though his gaze still holds my own as though if I look away, I will be well and truly lost. In truth, I almost feel like that will be the case, my resolve wavering as I rock back on my heels, as though doing so will grant me the courage to give Billy an honest answer. I can feel my lower lip trembling, though I am just as quickly cursing the fact, as it is doing nothing to lessen the sudden ire that is so apparent in Billy's gaze. But before I can do or say anything to distract him from my apparently weak constitution, I find that he is stepping towards me until his hands fall on either side of my face, his eyes searching my own as he lowers his voice such that I can hardly hear it over the commotion in the hallway just a few feet away.

"Alexis, what the hell is going on?"

"Andrew—"

"What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything," I confess, my voice cracking in the middle of the word as I avert my eyes to the inside of Billy's wrist, and wet my lips with my tongue before going on so that I don't lose my nerve and clam up once again, "He—he went to the chief, and made a case for me being incapable of caring for her properly given my connection to—"

"To who?"

"To you, Billy, who else?"

"Shit," Billy murmurs, turning away from me, and dragging a hand over already slightly tousled hair, thus causing me to realize that it is not in its usual, perfectly sculpted style that I have become so accustomed to. I would be a fool to pretend I cannot see the way in which his shoulders have tensed, causing the fabric of his shirt to go taut between them as I step closer to him even in spite of my own growing apprehension regarding what he will do now that he knows the truth. I hesitate for a moment, watching him where he remains motionless, even though I can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves. And, although some small part of me is still wondering if touching Billy is the best decision, given his obvious aggravation, I find that I am completely incapable of resisting the instinct to place my hand palm-flat between his shoulder blades, my body coming to rest just a hairsbreadth away from his taller frame while I register the slight relaxation of his shoulders before I speak.

"I'm sorry. I—if I had been a bit less of an open damned book, then none of this would've happened in the first place," I begin, only to find my attempt at explanation and apology cut off as quickly as it began when Billy turns around on a heel, forcing me to drop my hand back to my side as quickly as it had risen to rest against his back.

"No, Lex—you do not blame yourself for this. This isn't on you."

"Who is it on, then? Your mom? Because I sure as hell am not going to let you pin it on a woman who clearly has seen better days."

"No. It's on me, and that asshole that can't figure out he'd be a lot better off leaving you the hell alone," Billy retorts, once again turning away from me, and heading towards the main hall such that I am forced to jog a few steps to return to my former position walking at his side while I reply.

"Where the hell are you going, Billy?"

"Where do you think?"

"You can't," I protest, hurrying to move around Billy once again so that I can stop him in his tracks with a gentle hand upon the chest, "Billy, you can't just go charging up to him and cause a fight."

"Why are you defending him, Lex? What the hell does he have over you?"

"Nothing—"

"Now try and tell me that so that I actually believe you."

Recoiling from the uncharacteristic hardness and doubt that seems so inherent in his tone, I find myself taking a step back in spite of myself, my hand once again dropping to my side as I bite down on my lip to keep it from renewing the quivering that had plagued me just moments before. I hate the fact that I am so susceptible to his emotions—that just a single harsh remark, whether intended or not, can bring me near to tears. In truth, I might have been tempted to excuse that very fact on account of my previous encounter with Andrew, and the upheaval that caused in and of itself. But in spite of that desire to get away from true consideration of the reality of my situation, some stubborn instinct persists in keeping me rather firmly rooted in the here and now, my eyes meeting Billy's once again, albeit with significant hesitation, before I speak.

"You don't have to believe me, Billy. You just have to listen to what I'm telling you, now. You can't just declare war on the man who is actually trying to save your mom's life."

"Oh, is that what he's doing?"

"It is," I confirm, squaring my shoulders in spite of the fact that I am not one hundred percent certain that my words are true, and Billy knows it just by looking at my face, "He's a doctor. He can't take sides and pick who to save on account of a grudge any more than I can."

"Then why did he force you off the case, Lex? Can you tell me that?" Billy insists, his expression softening as he comes to terms with the reason behind why I have pulled away from him, and he clearly makes an effort to ensure that his next words are not as harsh on the ears as the ones that left his lips before, "He's got an agenda. That's never been more clear to me than it is now."

"Doesn't seem like there's much we can do about that, at the moment."

"There is if you let me go talk to him myself—"

"I'm not going to do that," I protest, surprising myself with how quickly I reach for Billy's arm as he attempts to pass me, and find that the gesture seems to stun him every bit as much as it does me, "Listen—I know you're pissed. I know this is less than ideal, and you don't trust him. But I never said I wasn't going to keep an eye on your mom in my own way, in spite of all this."

"How exactly do you plan to do that?"

"Honestly? It's a bit of a work in progress."

"A work in progress," Billy repeats, scoffing in obvious doubt of my ability to pull something like this off in the first place, though the act does very little to deter me from my chosen path, "God, Alexis, I can't let you do that—"

"Billy, if I'm willing to go up against my boss and help your mother regardless of what he's told me to do or not do, what gives you reason to believe that I'll change my ways just because you say no?"

In response to my direct question, Billy remains silent for just a moment, regarding me as though honestly torn between being proud of my determination, and questioning my sanity in the same motion. To be honest, some small part of me is relatively pleased at this development, in spite of the obvious realization that I have not heard the end of his desire to put Andrew in his place for what he's done. And although I am half-tempted to comment on that pleasure, if for no other reason than to attempt lightening Billy's obviously sour mood, I resist, somehow knowing that even if I do succeed in evoking a laugh, it will be all too short-lived.

"I'm doing this," I say instead, determination apparent in my stance as I straighten just a bit, and force myself to look Billy in the eye, no matter how the sight of a muscle twitching in his jaw urges caution, "But until I figure out a more conclusive way of doing that, you need to go see your mom."

"Alexis—"

"Go see your mom, Billy. Make sure she's okay with your own eyes, and we can talk more later."

"If you get in over your head, Lex, so help me I'll cuff your wrist to mine to keep you safe," He replies, only the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth giving me a hint of his slightly lessened anger, though I am not quite foolish enough to allow the fact to give me leave to permit my own expression to change in response, "And I'll try to be nice to your ass of a coworker if it means you'll be careful."

"Good to know," I begin, stepping to the side so that Billy can resume his trek down the hall, only to turn at the last possible moment and call out to him one final time, despite the fact that I know full well I am tempting fate by trying to make a joke.

"And Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"You may want to reconsider cuffing us together. Might be kind of difficult for either one of us to do our jobs, that way."

I would have been blind had I missed the shake of Billy's head in response to my lame attempt at humor, the soft snort that he gives me providing me with far more relief than I feel that I truly deserve.

…

Mercifully, I make it through the rest of the shift in one piece, and without further conflict, my entire body seeming to sag as I sit on the bench beside my locker, with my head held gingerly in both hands. The beginning of a headache has started to throb its way through my temples, evoking a low groan as I wet my lips and attempt to force myself to stand, so that I can reopen my locker and grab for the bottle of Motrin I keep on hand for just such a purpose. Popping open the cap, I down two cold turkey, jerking my head back just a bit to aid in swallowing without water to help in the process. And only then do I catch sight of a newcomer standing just at the end of the row of lockers I currently occupy, one hand replacing the pill bottle in my locker, before I turn to face Andrew head on.

"What do you want?"

"I didn't know if you had already left," Andrew states, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer towards me, and frowning as soon as he realizes I have taken a step back in response, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Seriously? After what you did, you're actually concerned if I'm okay?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because from what I've seen you really don't give a damn one way or the other."

"That's bullshit and you know it, Alexis. I do care," Andrew argues, clearly not swayed by my snort of derision, or the fact that I once again take another step back as he attempts to move closer for a second time, "That's exactly why I did what I did."

"You jeopardized my career because you care—that's rich—"

"It's the truth."

"Yeah, well, you'll forgive me if I don't believe you," I quip, slamming the door of my locker shut with perhaps more vehemence than is truly necessary, and stooping to haul my bag up over my shoulder before going on, "If you'll excuse me, I'm exhausted, so I'm going to head home."

"Can't we talk about this?"

"No. No, we can't talk about this, Andrew."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't feel like it, that's why."

"You and I both know that's not the real answer, Alexis," Andrew presses, moving to effectively block my path as I attempt to skirt past him and towards the door to the locker room, and causing me to rock back on my heels while a huff of aggravation escapes before I can stop it, "Come on—we can fix whatever it is that's happening here, if you just give it a chance."

"Whatever it is? Like you don't know."

"Alright, fine. We can fix what you think I did—"

"What I know you did," I interrupt, yanking my hand away from his as he attempts to grab it, and pushing past him towards the door, only to find that I am effectively stalled in my path by the sudden sensation of a backward tug on the strap of my bag.

"Lex, please—"

"Get the hell off me!"

"Not until you let me explain," Andrew states, the sudden impact of his fingers curling around my wrist causing me to stumble in surprise, until my back thuds against the nearby locker and a gasp forces its way out of my lungs. His hold on me is not rough—not really, though that realization does not stop my heart from pounding erratically in my chest, regardless. And no matter how much instinct may be screaming at me to pull away, I remain stock still, my chest heaving as I struggle to regulate my breathing, as Andrew steps just close enough that our torsos can touch.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Lex. I just want to talk," He says, his expression clearly indicating he expects me to believe his words at face value, in spite of the fact that he seems all but determined to invade my personal space, no matter how obvious it must be that the closeness is putting me on edge, "We're friends. Or at least we were, and I'm not going to let one misunderstanding get in the middle of that."

"I think it's more than just a—a misunderstanding," I manage, relieved to find that my voice hardly wavers at all, even though I can feel every muscle I possess trembling like a leaf caught in a strong wind. I can tell, almost as soon as the words leave my mouth, that Andrew does not believe me. That he is already trying to come up with some way of proving me wrong. But almost as though he thinks better of it at the last possible moment, his posture slackens just a bit, though his fingers still remain curled about my wrist as he exhales in a rush before speaking once again.

"I'm sorry you feel that way. I really am. But I was only trying to act in your best interests."

"In my best interests—"

"Yes. Whether you can see it or not, you're far better off removed from the case than you think."

"What gives you the right to think you can make that decision for me?"

"How about the fact that I'm trying to protect you!" Andrew exclaims, his grip on my wrist tightening just a bit, and causing me to wince in response, "You get close to a case like that, and it goes sideways, what the hell do you think happens to your career then?"

"So you just—what? Took the liberty of trying to do that yourself?"

"That's not what I was trying to do and you know it."

"Oh yeah? Because that's sure as hell what it looks like to me," I hiss, dropping my gaze down to my wrist, and swallowing past my apprehension at the slight redness of the skin that I can see surrounding Andrew's fingers, "It should be me deciding whether or not I can handle a patient. Not you."

"Maybe I'll keep that in mind for next time. That is, as long as you're not so enthralled with one of the patient's relatives that you can't see sense."

"Go to hell, Andrew."

Before he can make any other attempt at talking his way out of his recent behavior, I somehow summon the wherewithal to yank my hand away from his grasp while using the other to push at his shoulder in order to create a window for passing him by, my feet carrying me towards the door of the locker room far more quickly than I truly believed possible. I do not dare look back at him before passing through the door, and allowing it to slam shut behind me, for fear that even the slightest hint of regret in his expression will cause me to relent and turn back to him against all good sense. And almost as soon as I am out into the hall that will lead to the parking structure where I will find my car, I am breaking into a slow run, the sudden need to get as far as I can away from this place—from Andrew—from all of it temporarily causing me to forget that I promised Billy we would talk again after my shift.

For now, I just want to be in the safety of my own apartment, preferably with a bottle of wine in my hand, and something mind-numbing on the television to keep my mind off of everything that has just transpired.

…


	14. Foolish Plans

Back in the safety of my apartment, and alone, as Karen has jotted a note to inform me she'll be out of town on a job for a few days, I find myself almost immediately ensconced on the sofa in front of the television, my work clothes replaced by a loose fitting old shirt of my brother's, and baggy sweats almost as soon as I had arrived. Whether it was wise or not, I had already made my way through half of a bottle of wine, though the slight buzz it gave was not entirely enough to calm my nerves entirely. In spite of how fervently I am trying to avoid it, I cannot seem to stop glancing down at the bruise that now mars the skin of my wrist where Andrew had held on so tightly, my heart lurching within my chest each and every time I do. It is almost as though the bruise is a sort of magnet, pulling my attention towards it no matter how much I wish it would simply disappear…

Suddenly, it occurs to me that wine is not going to be enough to block out the thoughts that seem determined to latch onto my mind, regardless of my attempts to stop them.

Discarding my glass on the table, and rising from the sofa to pad back into the kitchen, I rummage through the cupboard housing the hard liquor for a moment before my fingers graze against the familiar shape of the bottle of tequila Karen and I keep on hand for desperate occasions. Pulling it down, and turning to the cupboard that houses the shot glasses, I pause for a moment, brow furrowing as the more reckless side of me—the side that is truly desperate to just forget, even if only for a moment, contemplates forgetting the glass entirely and just drinking straight from the bottle, itself.

It seems tonight will be the night where the reckless side of me wins.

Turning on a heel, and taking the bottle back towards the sofa, I unscrew the cap and toss it on the table before taking a swig, the burning sensation I feel as the liquid makes its way down my throat provoking a wince while I flop back down on the sofa almost immediately thereafter. Though a part of me suspects it will do me no good, I fix my eyes resolutely upon the television screen while taking another gulp of tequila. But almost as soon as I do so, a faint buzzing reaches my ears, the sound causing me to frown for a bit before it occurs to me that I must have never turned the ringer of my cell back on after leaving work.

A glance at the screen of the device has my eyes widening almost immediately, one hand reaching for it so that I can answer the call while the other deposits the tequila bottle on the table beside my abandoned glass of wine. As soon as I see the name on the screen, everything comes crashing back to me—and although my mouth is opening as soon as I accept the call so that I can make my apologies, I find myself cut off in the attempt, the harsh urgency in Billy's voice causing me to flinch while I simultaneously run my free hand through my hair.

"Lex, where the hell are you? I thought we were meeting at the hospital after your shift."

"I—I know," I stammer, exhaling in a rush, before slouching back against the sofa cushions, while my free hand lifts to massage at my temple, "I—"

"You what?"

"I forgot."

"What the hell do you mean, you forgot? Where are you, now?" Billy demands, the acidity in his tone causing me to frown while I realize that the sudden sting at the corners of my eyes are tears, trying to break free, "Alexis, I need you to answer me—"

"I'm at home. At the apartment," I reply, biting my lip for a moment as I struggle to regain some manner of control over the sudden trembling that has taken root in my voice, "Billy, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm coming over."

"Billy—"

"I'm coming over," He persists, his tone brooking no argument, before a slight pause ensues, during which time I register the faint beep of his car responding to the key fab he is likely clutching tightly in his free hand, "And we're gonna talk."

"Okay," I murmur, the muted thud that echoes in the background of the call indicating Billy is now inside his car and will likely be arriving at my apartment in a manner of minutes, "I—I'll see you soon?"

"Yeah. See you soon."

The call disconnects almost as soon as the words leave my mouth, my hand dropping so that I can replace the phone on the table while a resigned sigh passes my parted lips. I know I am in for it, now. That Billy will not rest until he learns the truth of what happened at the hospital to cause me to forget our prearranged plans. And although I would be a fool to pretend that I am not just a bit apprehensive about what that may entail, I am also more than a little relieved that I will not have to spend the remainder of this night alone.

Of course, even that realization is not entirely enough to have me abandoning the tequila bottle entirely, my fingers once again grazing against the glass as I lift it to my lips for yet another swig, knowing that I just may need it after telling Billy exactly what went down with Andrew at the hospital…

If he was aggravated by my disappearance, I can only imagine what he will be like if he catches a glimpse of the bruise standing out upon my wrist.

…

The sound of a sharp knock at my door propels me from my seat upon the sofa in seconds flat, my body lurching just a bit as the room spins around me and I very nearly drop the tequila bottle that is still clutched tightly in one hand. By some miracle, I make it to the door without falling on my face, though even I have to admit the journey gets a little easier once I am near enough to the wall that I can graze my free hand against its surface while I move. And, before I know it, I am reaching for the door handle and unlocking it, my teeth once again coming to chew at my lower lip as I force myself to look Billy in the eye as soon as I have opened the door.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself," He says, his gaze travelling down to the tequila bottle in my hand, and thus causing his brow to quirk in amusement and curiosity all at once before he speaks again, "So this is what you blew me off for? Tequila?"

"So it would seem."

"Well I'll warn you, it won't be nearly as fun to wake up to in the morning," Billy elaborates, his words provoking a blush that has me averting my gaze, and stepping back to allow him inside my apartment in spite of the burning in my cheeks, "Take it from personal experience."

"I'll keep that in mind," I quip, shutting and locking the door while Billy moves towards the den of my apartment, only to stop as he takes in the abandoned glass of wine on the table before the sofa, "Was someone else here?"

"No. I traded up," I explain, lifting the tequila bottle in my hand, and managing a shaky little smile even in spite of the concern that almost immediately clouds Billy's expression in response to my words, "Wine wasn't cutting it."

"Do I need to start worrying about alcoholism?"

"No. You don't."

"Good. Then maybe you can tell me exactly what went down after I left you that turned you into a binge drinker."

"Would you at least let me offer you a drink, first?" I inquire, ignoring the way in which Billy's eyes narrow as he watches me sway just a bit on my feet before shaking his head and reaching forward to grab for my free hand so that he can tug me down to sit beside him on the sofa.

"No, Lex. I don't want a drink. I want the truth."

"Spoil sport."

"Alexis—" Billy intones, something about the expression on his face causing me to stiffen just a bit, in spite of the fact that I understand on some unspoken level that his aggravation is not directed at me. Not really. He is only reacting this way because he cares, or so I tell myself, my gaze drifting down to the hem of my brother's shirt while my fingers fiddle with the fabric as I simultaneously realize he is removing the tequila bottle from my hands and setting it with a soft thud against the table. It takes a moment for me to regain the courage to look him in the eye again, the gentle pressure of his fingers upon my own never once faltering in spite of the fact that he has to pick up on my unease as easily as though it is tattooed upon my skin. And although I am still somewhat reluctant to be fully honest, not knowing what he will do once he learns the truth, I force myself to square my shoulders and resist the urge to pull away, my voice soft, but mercifully not wavering at all as I reply.

"I had another run-in with Andrew in the locker room. He just—he was going out of his way to try and justify going to the chief, and he didn't like that I wasn't buying it."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing. Not really."

"Why am I not convinced?"

"Because you don't like him," I deadpan, aware of the soft snort Billy gives in response despite the fact that his amusement never comes close to reaching his eyes, "Though admittedly I'm beginning to see why."

"Did he hurt you?" Billy grates out, his expression hardening as he locks my eyes with his own, as though he feels he will be capable of reading my answer whether I say a word or not, "Lex, I swear to God—"

"He grabbed my arm, Billy. That's all."

As soon as I say the words, I watch, powerless, as Billy drops his gaze down to where my hands now rest in my lap, brown eyes narrowed as he so clearly catches on to the arm in question, and reaches out a hand to lift it gently for further inspection. I cannot help the slight flinch that comes in response to the soft touch of one of Billy's fingertips against the edge of one of the marks upon my skin, my eyes remaining glued to the jumping muscle in his jaw for a moment, before some instinct I cannot fully explain has me pulling my arm away and moving to stand before Billy can stop me.

"It's just a small bruise. It's—"

"No. No, don't you dare say it's nothing."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Oh really," Billy retorts, obvious doubt lacing his tone, though he remains seated, his eyes harder and colder than I have ever seen them before as he watches me move towards the window overlooking the street below, "It sure as hell seems like it was."

"Well it's not. I just—"

"You just what?"

"I don't want you doing anything reckless because you think he's a threat to me," I blurt, squeezing my eyes shut as the stinging sensation that plagued them before, when Billy first arrived, resurfaces, and curling my fingers into fists until I can feel the pressure of my fingernails digging into the skin of my palms, "I don't—I can't have that, okay?"

"What do you want me to do, Lex? Just sit by and let this asshole harass you?"

"No. But I do hope you'll calm down enough to see that—this—is far from comparable to what some women go through when harassment is in the cards."

"So you're going to minimize it," Billy states, disbelief apparent upon his features as he moves to stand, and maneuvers around the table to stop me in my tracks as I seem to have unwittingly taken up the act of pacing the floor while my gaze remains riveted upon my feet, "I won't let you do that."

"I don't really think you're going to have much of a choice."

"How so?"

"It's occurred to me that if I go crying for protection now, whether he suffers the consequences or not, I'll have next to no chance of figuring out what his motive really is."

"And how the hell do you plan on doing that? If you think I'm letting you anywhere near him on your own again—"

"Blame the tequila," I interject, stepping away just as Billy makes a move to pull me closer, knowing full well that if I spend too much time in close proximity to the man, he will find some way of weakening my resolve. In all honesty, the idea only just came to my mind, though I do what I can to organize my thoughts so that it will appear as though I have been thinking on this for far longer. Somehow, I know that coming to it on a whim will only make Billy that much more reluctant to even consider my plan, such as it is. But, the more I think upon it, the more I know that I have to give it a chance, my expression hardening just a bit as I make my way back towards the sofa, and perch on its edge before attempting to explain.

"I think the best course of action is to pretend this never happened."

"That's insane."

"Hear me out, Billy, please," I persist, watching as he leans with his back against the window, lean arms folding across his chest while he manages a faint nod that does not entirely assure me he will, in fact, let me elaborate, uninterrupted, "I've known the guy for a while now, and this—what he's doing, now, is about as out of character as it would be for me to suddenly decide to become a stripper."

"Wow. I guess I will blame the tequila."

"I'm being serious, Billy. This sudden aggression is not him. Not really. And I think I have a means of finding out what's causing such a sudden shift in behavior."

"So, you're going to be his shrink, now?" Billy quips, failing to entirely suppress the roll of the eyes that has me gritting my teeth for a moment, before realizing he is not entirely finished speaking, "Apparently you forgot this is the same jackass that bruised your arm."

"No, I haven't forgotten. But I've had a patient, before, that gave me a black eye while he was in withdrawal. Didn't mean I stopped treating him just because an extenuating circumstance caused me to get hurt."

"This is a hell of a lot more than an extenuating circumstance. He's taken it too far."

"And I think I owe it to him to see why he has," I insist, praying with all that I have that I will not only be able to convince Billy that this is the right course of action, but myself, as well. Even thinking of it, now, seems insane, though that is not entirely enough to deter me from my current course. And so, I do what I can to steel my resolve, my eyes locking on to Billy's as I exhale as slowly as I can before going on, "If I can't find a reason, then—then you're free to do whatever you'd like."

"What, I'm just supposed to believe that?" Billy questions, the scoff he gives in response to my suggestion causing me to frown, though I do what I can to avoid allowing such an expression to linger upon my features for too long, "You aren't going to let me do anything to him, are you?"

"Nothing that will get you into trouble, no. But I'm not blind, Billy. I know you have resources that can get you access to information no one else would ever dream of, and I know that you'd use them if it meant you got to put Andrew Rawlins in his place."

In lieu of a reply, I watch as Billy simply shakes his head, one hand lifting to wipe across his face while his shoulders slump in something not all that far from defeat. I can tell, just by looking at him, that he knows I'm not about to give in. That he can see my decision to sneak around behind his back if he issues a flat denial as easily as though it is playing on the television screen across the room. And although a part of me wants to revel in my apparent victory, I keep my expression as stoic as I can, knowing that if I show even a hint of my elation over his slow and reluctant act of giving in, I will be giving him everything he needs to revert in the opposite direction to shut me down before I can even begin.

"You know, I made a promise, once. To your brother," He begins, raising his eyes to mine just in time to see the way I flinch in response to the mention of Nate, and subsequently moving away from the window and towards the sofa, instead, so that he can once again sit beside me, and lift a hand until the pad of his thumb comes to brush gently against my cheek, "I told him if anything ever happened to him overseas, I'd fight like hell to get back here myself, to keep you safe."

"And you did. You're here, and whether you seem to believe it or not, you've already done a hell of a job at keeping me safe."

"Yeah, until I agreed to let you do this. Nate's probably rolling in his grave right now, ready to haunt me in my sleep."

"I think it's safe to say he's going to be haunting the both of us for a bit," I assure, one corner of my mouth lifting into a sad attempt at a smile as I lean into the touch of Billy's hand, and wonder, just for a moment, what the expression that flitters across his features for just a moment before it is rearranging itself back into its usual distant look actually means. Some small part of me—the liquored up part, most likely—is inexplicably drawn to him in this moment, my eyes remaining locked upon his own as I realize he has scooted just a bit closer to me. Close enough for me to feel the slight warmth of his breath against my skin. But before either one of us can say or do anything to either spur the moment forward, or reel it back in, a shrill beeping breaks into the silence, causing me to jump while Billy almost instinctively reaches towards his back pocket and withdraws his phone in one fluid motion.

"Russo," He snaps, rising from the sofa once again, and moving towards the kitchen with sure, easy steps that give me no doubt that whatever his conversation might entail, I am certainly not meant to hear it. In spite of the slight sting of dejection that spreads through me in response to that realization, however, I do my best to simply settle back against the cushions of my sofa once more, my eyes straying to whatever program is playing on the television, in spite of the fact that I do not even bother to comprehend what is flashing across the screen. Instead, my thoughts seem to have latched onto my as yet barely planned method of figuring out what the hell Andrew is about, my fingers moving to pick at a stray thread on my sweatpants while I ruminate over how best to proceed. I need information, both as it pertains to Andrew's past, and to his current dealings outside of what I know of from work, as well. And in order to get that information, I need a contact who has a means of getting access to such things under the radar.

David…

Suppressing a grin as I realize my impromptu decision has somehow turned out to be easier to follow through on than I ever could have anticipated, I reach for my phone once again, plucking it from the table with relative ease as all traces of the buzz I had incurred from the tequila very nearly disappear. Of course, I am aware that my initiation of contact, such as it is, will not exactly be appreciated, knowing full-well that the man's penchant for remaining in the dark all but prohibits my forward act in its entirety. But, regardless of that fact, I find I am powerless to even consider stopping now, my fingers tapping out a quick message on the screen of my cell just as I realize Billy's footsteps are coming back from the kitchen in the same moment.

Need to meet. You free tomorrow?

"Sorry about that—work emergency."

"Do you need to leave?" I ask, cursing myself for how suddenly I give in to the desire to pray as fervently as I can that his answer will be a resounding no, "I don't—I don't want to keep you if it's something important."

"All taken care of," Billy responds, his lips twitching in what I can only describe as a smirk as he plops back down on the sofa beside me, and his gaze drifts to the phone that I am still clutching in my hand, "Unless you were looking for a reason to get rid of me?"

"No. No, not at all. I was just shooting off a text to Karen to see that she made it to her hotel in one piece."

If he picks up on the white lie, Billy certainly gives me no indication in his outward appearance, his eyes never straying from me as I place the phone face-down upon the table, and lean back on instinct so that I am resting comfortably against his side. Of course, I have not forgotten what transpired between us before the impromptu ringing of his cell phone, or rather what might have transpired, had we not been interrupted. But regardless of how a part of me wishes more than anything to be given a chance to repeat it, if only to see it through to fruition, I am also content to simply remain as I am, curled against Billy's side, the warmth of his arm winding around my shoulders to pull me closer prompting me to tilt my head back to look up at him while my right hand simultaneously comes to rest flat upon his chest.

"So, you're staying the night, then? It's like you said—people might start to talk…"

"Let 'em. If you think I'm letting you out of my sight one second sooner than I have to, you're crazier than I thought."

"Gee, I love you too," I tease, swatting at Billy's stomach, and emitting a shriek of surprise as I suddenly find myself locked in a vice-like grip, my arms pinned above my head with the same sort of simplicity my companion uses to flip me over until I am squashed beneath him on the sofa. I can feel my heart pounding erratically against my ribcage in response to his closeness, while my cheeks flush in open betrayal of my sudden jolt of nerves. But, in spite of that, and the manner in which Billy's brow seems to furrow for a millisecond as he takes note of my reaction, the potentially awkward moment is gone before it has a chance to catch hold, another squeal escaping my lips as one of Billy's hands frees itself from its place holding my arms above my head to drift down so that he can tickle my side.

For now, at least, it seems we are both capable of putting our individual troubles to the side in favor of simply acting as we always have, and to say anything other than that such a thing did me far more good than I might have believed would have been a lie.

…


	15. Going Rogue

I wake the following morning practically buried in the blankets on my bed, the smell of bacon, and something not all that far from cinnamon reaching my nose, and causing me to blink my eyes open slowly, even in spite of the dull throbbing at my temples. Unbidden, my stomach lets out a low rumble, as though sensing the potential for food, and deciding to make its opinions known whether I want it to, or not. And so, I force myself to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and divest myself of the sheets that had been covering my frame up until now, a low groan escaping as the sudden movement causes my head to pound, and I curse myself for ever thinking it was a good idea to mix my booze the night before.

Live and learn, right?

With another groan, and a significant amount of leaning against the wall as I make my way out of my bedroom and down the hall towards the kitchen, I somehow manage to keep myself moving, the smell of the bacon and cinnamon only growing stronger the closer I get to its source. Before too long, I find that I am standing in the doorway, pausing for just long enough to take in a sight that I never thought I would see. Billy Russo is hovering over my stove, a dish towel slung over one shoulder while he keeps an eye on what I can only surmise is the aforementioned bacon—

Correction. While he keeps an eye on the bacon, sans shirt.

"Um—hey."

"Morning, sleepyhead," Billy replies, one corner of his mouth turning up in what I can only describe as a smirk as he turns slightly at the waist, to look at me head-on, "Sheesh—you look like crap, Lex."

"Gee, thanks. You really know how to keep a girl feeling great about herself."

"I try."

"You succeed," I quip, moving forward just a bit to lean my hip against the nearby countertop, while simultaneously peering around Billy's frame to see what else is on top of the stove, "Is that—French toast?"

"That would be correct."

"Wow. I take it back. You're spoiling me, and I'm a jackass."

"A cute jackass, though."

"Seriously?"

"Would I lie to you about a thing like that?" Billy questions, his expression very clearly intended to feign innocence, despite the fact that I do not buy it for a second, "Okay. Maybe I would."

"That's what I thought."

"Do me a favor and try not to bask too long in the fact that you're right this time, okay?"

"Well now you're just taking the fun right out of it," I gripe, folding both of my arms across my chest, and lifting a brow despite the fact that the act has me doing everything I can to hold back a wince while the pounding in my head resurfaces once again, "Typical."

"Is that actual grumpiness I'm detecting, or are you just hungover?"

"Hungover. Definitely hungover."

"Okay. Well, in that case, how about we get you set up with some coffee," Billy suggests, turning from the stove, and heading towards me so that he can grab onto one of my hands before I can stop him, and tug me towards the sofa not long thereafter, "Sit. I'll get you taken care of."

"Billy, you don't have to do this—"

"Actually, I think I do. So, sit, and I'll be right back with that coffee, alright?"

"Okay," I consent, perching on the edge of the sofa cushions, and trying to ignore how my eyes seem to remain glued to Billy's bare torso as though my life depends upon it. I know, on some level, that I will have absolutely no logical means of explaining myself if he suddenly decides to turn back around and catches me in the act. But even that is not quite enough of a motivation to persuade me to stop, it seems, my teeth absently digging into my lower lip as I realize the act of him reaching to the top shelf to grab a coffee mug has caused the muscles of his back to flex.

God, but I am really out of my depth, here…

As if such a thought is capable of summoning his attention, I find myself forcing my own gaze towards the table in front of my sofa in a last ditch effort at pretending I had been gazing absently in that direction all along, the realization that I really was almost caught in the act of staring bringing a light flush to my cheeks, while I become aware of the fact that Billy is moving back towards me for a moment, with my favorite coffee cup held in hand.

"You take creamer, or no?"

"Creamer. Please."

"Coming right up."

"It's in the—"

"Refrigerator," Billy finishes for me, going about the task of pulling the container of creamer from the door, and pouring some into the coffee mug he has selected with so much ease it would almost be believable if someone suggested that he lived here with me, "I'd say I'm pretty familiar with the general layout of this kitchen by now, Lex."

"I'm not sure that's a good thing or a bad one, to be honest."

"Let's just say it's a good thing, and leave it at that."

"If you say so," I shrug, reaching out a hand to accept the full coffee mug as Billy approaches, and emitting a soft hum as the warmth of the ceramic seems into my palms, "Thanks."

"Not a problem."

"Any particular reason you're running a bed and breakfast this morning?" I inquire, once again left with nothing to do but watch as Billy heads back to the kitchen, and reaches into another cupboard for two plates, "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

"You seemed like you could use a little TLC."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Kind of," Billy begins, grabbing both plates after piling them both as high as he can with bacon and French toast, and bringing them over towards the sofa to place them both upon the table so that he can take a seat beside me not long thereafter, "You okay?"

"You mean, aside from the pounding in my head that feels like someone's taking a jackhammer to my skull?"

"Yeah. Aside from that."

"Okay, I guess—" I hedge, pausing for long enough to take a sip of coffee now that it has cooled enough that it will not scald my tongue, and simultaneously coming to the realization that Billy does not appear too interested in his own breakfast, as he has never once averted his gaze from my face since he sat down, "What?"

"I think you know what, Lex."

"Do I, though? Because from where I'm sitting, I have no clue why you're staring at me right now."

"Do you have any recollection of what we talked about last night?" Billy asks, reaching towards his plate to snag a piece of bacon, and popping it into his mouth so that he can chew and swallow it before going on, "Any memory at all?"

"Yeah. From what I recall, you weren't too happy about the idea I came up with."

"I'm still not, for the record."

"And I'm still committed," I counter, placing my coffee mug on the table and grabbing the plate of breakfast, instead, in order to eat at least a portion of it before it gets cold, "In case you were wondering."

"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't have to wonder about that."

"Good."

"Not good, Alexis. Very not good," Billy protests, shifting the hold of his plate to one hand so that he can drag the fingers of the other through his still sleep-tousled hair, "Do you have any idea at all what this might mean? What sort of risk it might pose to your safety?"

"Do you have any idea what it will mean if I just sit on my ass and do nothing?"

"I think it means you'll continue staying safe."

"And I think it means I'll just feel like a damned coward," I retort, picking apart one of the pieces of toast Billy gave me, and exhaling slowly in an attempt at calming myself so that I do not end up saying something I will later regret, "Billy, I really wish you would trust me on this."

"It's not you that I don't trust."

"Then what is it? Because I really can't see why my doing a little digging on the sidelines would raise any red flags. Andrew's a doctor, Billy, not a cop. He's not going to see me coming."

"You're really sure of that?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I am."

"Well then, that makes one of us."

"Is there anything at all I can say or do to make you realize I can do this? Anything at all?"

"Why do I get the feeling that even if I tell you no, you aren't going to change your mind?" Billy sighs, the expression that takes over his features coming very near to breaking my heart, despite the fact that I have absolutely no intention of changing my mind regarding what I am about to do. Of course, I would be lying if I tried to pretend that being at odds with Billy over something this important is not killing me, particularly as we have never really disagreed so vehemently about anything in the past. But even knowing that, and recognizing the lingering feeling of guilt that seems to take root somewhere near my stomach, I am still more than determined to do as I said I would last night, my tongue darting out to wet my lips for a moment before I summon the wherewithal to speak once again.

"Because you would be on the right track if you did. Billy, please—I'm doing this either way, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if I knew you had my back in this."

"I always have your back, Lex. Always."

"Billy—"

"I do," He insists, abandoning his plate on the table once again, and sliding over closer towards me so that he can reach for one of my hands with his own, "Even when you're insisting on going off and doing some pretty crazy shit, I have your back."

"So, you're saying I'm crazy now?"

"Dammit Alexis, I'm being serious here."

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry," I relent, glancing down at Billy's hand where it covers my own, and trying my best to ignore the way in which the heat of him seems to emanate from his bare skin, until I am all but powerless to ignore it, "I just—Billy, I need to do this. I just—I do."

"Can you just promise me one thing, then?" Billy requests, something in the startlingly imploring nature of his tone prompting me to nod, even though I know, on some level, that what he is about to ask me to do is only going to put a damper on my progress, "Really? You're agreeing that easily?"

"Take it or leave it, Billy—"

"Fine, fine, I'll take it. If I let you do this—if I really let you do this, then you're gonna do it with my help."

"What?" I gasp, my shock overwhelming my desire to keep my emotions from making themselves known in my expression, though I do what I can to return my features to something more akin to neutral curiosity before speaking again, "I—exactly how do you plan to do that?"

"I've got people that can look into this guy too, Lex. Or have you forgotten that?"

"No. No, I haven't forgotten that."

"Good. I'd hate to have to check you into the hospital for reckless ideas, and dementia."

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"I sure as hell thought it was," Billy teases, abandoning his hold on my hand in favor of reaching for his plate once again, and gesturing towards my own before going on, "So—you gonna promise me now, or what?"

"Wow. Subtle."

"Subtle ain't exactly what I'm aiming for and you know it."

"Alright. I—I promise I'll let you help," I manage, silently thanking whatever god is listening that I am capable of speaking without my voice wavering even in spite of the surge of apprehension that rolls through every nerve ending I possess, "But please, Billy—don't—don't go pulling any reckless stunts of your own, okay? I can't—I couldn't face it, if—"

"Hey—hey, nothing is going to happen to me, okay? I'm more worried about something happening to you."

"How about we both agree to do everything we can to avoid letting anything happen to either of us. Does that sound like something you could do?"

"Definitely," Billy concurs, picking up one of his pieces of French toast, and taking a bite out of one of the corners, such that when he elaborates, he is speaking around the small bit of bread, and reminding me all too well of the numerous times he and my brother would be so eager to get to the next bit of their conversation that all thought of attempting to avoid talking with one's mouth full fell to the wayside in seconds, flat, "Now eat. I think you're pretty damned lucky that I managed all this without lighting your apartment on fire, so you'd better finish every last bit on your plate, or I'll start to think my effort was wasted."

And just like that, things seem like they have gone back to normal…

…

Not long after our breakfast, and my hasty retreat to the shower, I find myself seated outside one of the more eclectic cafes in town, my fingers toying idly with the edges of one of the napkins that has been placed upon the table, while I wait for my would-be companion to arrive. As it turns out, Billy had received a call from work at around the same time I stepped away from the kitchen and headed towards the shower. And, with the opportunity presented by his absence, a response to the text I had sent David the night before came in tandem, requesting a meet at the café in question just a little after eleven o' clock…

Saying anything other than that I was not at least a little bit pleased over the circumstances would have been a lie.

With that in mind, I find that I am rather gratefully accepting the glass of iced tea that the waitress brings me just in time with the sight of the man sliding into the seat across from me, her gaze turning towards him only to find that he is waving her away without a second thought. To mask the slight upturn at the corners of my mouth at the evasive predictability of his response, I lift my tea to my lips and take a sip or two while the waitress retreats with a perplexed expression stealing its way across her face. And although some small part of me wanted to comment on that very fact, I force myself to avoid doing so, better instinct dictating that I should opt for a different means of starting the discourse between us, instead.

"A little warm for a hooded sweatshirt today, don't you think?"

"You wear what you wear, I wear what I wear," David replies, glancing around at our surroundings, before leaning forward with both elbows on the table between us, and regarding me with a look that is clearly meant to question my sanity for reaching out to him in the first place, "What did you need?"

"Information," I begin, running my fingertips over the condensation forming on the outside of my glass, and watching my companion carefully for any sign of hesitation as I go on, "On a coworker of mine at the hospital."

"Someone over there writing bad prescriptions?"

"No. No, that's—that's not what this is about."

"What, then? I assume you wouldn't contact me out of the blue for no reason at all."

"You're right. I wouldn't. The coworker I'm talking about—he—he's got a bit of a vendetta against one of my friends."

"Oh, is that all?" David quips, folding his hands together, and darting another glance at the sparse number of patrons in the seats around us yet again before elaborating further, "Because I was sitting here thinking you would only reach out to me, directly, if something, or someone spooked you."

"Who says—who says I'm spooked?"

"It's written all over your face. You know, you really ought to do a better job masking your reactions if you don't want someone to realize you're not giving them the whole story, Alexis."

"Well, my facial expressions aside, I'm not spooked. Not really," I say, ignoring David's obviously doubtful expression, and risking another sip of my tea to steel my nerves for what I am about to say next, "But truthfully, he's a bit persistent to make us something more, as well."

"There it is."

"Don't, okay? I feel shady enough about this as it is."

"If you feel shady, why are you doing it?"

"Because he—his interest in me might be fueling that vendetta I told you about, and compromising a patient's care in the process."

"Okay. What's his name?" David questions, shifting in his chair such that he is poised on its edge, as though he intends to bolt as quickly as he can as soon as I am finished giving him the information he needs. In truth, I half-expected something like this, given how antsy he has been in almost every other interaction we have had to date. But something in the way he seems particularly on edge this time around has me frowning before I can fully stop it, my hand reaching out to rest atop his own as I realize he has taken up the act of drumming his fingers against the tabletop as though he truly has any reason at all to be nervous in my presence.

"Listen, if you don't want to do this—"

"I never said that, did I?"

"It's written all over your face," I mimic, secretly pleased with the faintest flickers of a grin that toys at the edges of his mouth, though I keep my hand over his in hopes that the gesture will prove reassuring, regardless, "Seriously. If you're uncomfortable, I can find someone else."

"Yeah, but that someone else isn't going to be half as good as I would be, are they?" David points out, lifting his gaze to meet mine, while a wry smile finally makes its way onto his face, "I'm in."

"You're sure?"

"Of course. Give me the name."

"David—" I protest, doing my best to search every last facet of his expression in hopes that I will be able to discern if he is only agreeing because he thinks it is what I want, or if he genuinely wants to help, only to find the gesture rendered irrelevant as he cuts me off without a second thought.

"The name, Alexis. I can't help you if you don't give me the guy's name."

"Andrew Rawlins."

I would have been blind to miss the flash of recognition that passes over David's features in response to my words, though he clearly makes every effort he can to mask it almost immediately after the fact. I want to question him on it, of course, since I have every reason to believe that he already knows something about the man, whether he wants to fully admit to that, or not. But before I even have the chance to think of where to begin, I find that David is moving to stand with the startling sound of the legs of his chair scraping against the concrete beneath it, his eyes meeting mine for just a moment before he departs, his words hardly audible as he risks one more glance back at our table to speak over his shoulder as the only means of proving he has agreed to my request at all.

"I'll give you a call when I find anything."

It may not have been much, but it was a start.

…


	16. Threat Declared

The next day, I find myself standing in the doorway of the employee locker room, my arms folded defensively across my chest as I track the movements of the man I know I will have to approach if I want my impromptu plan to stand any reasonable chance of success at all. I know that I need to do this. That I need to summon the courage to approach Andrew and portray a convincing desire to make amends, whether that is the farthest thing from what I truly wish to do or not. And so, before I can lose my nerve entirely, I force myself to move away from the door frame and head into the locker room itself, my teeth digging into my lower lip for a moment as I move towards my own locker, and devote my attention to the task of opening it while simultaneously addressing the man beside me with as even a voice as I can manage.

"Hey."

Great job, Hanson. What a perfect opening line…

"Hey, yourself," Andrew replies, the sound of his locker door slamming shut causing me to flinch, though I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment in hopes that it will give me the wherewithal to refrain from being so jumpy in the immediate future, "You alright?"

"Doing better," I admit, secretly pleased that my voice does not waver, and using that small success to force myself to look Andrew in the eye, instead of staring at my locker the entire time, "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For asking to begin with."

"Kind of felt like I owed it to you," Andrew shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the locker door, and regarding me with what I can only assume is a pitying expression for a moment before he speaks again, "After what happened, I mean."

"You were just doing what you thought was right," I manage, forcing myself to ignore the tension that lodges itself between my shoulder blades in favor of shrugging out of my jacket and stowing it on the hook inside my locker, instead, "I couldn't see that at the time, but I-I think I see it now."

"Really?"

"Yeah. And I-I'm sorry I reacted the way I did. You didn't deserve that for just trying to help."

"Well I would be lying if I said I wasn't glad for your change of heart," Andrew admits, his body shifting towards mine only a fraction of an inch, and causing me to fight with all that I have to avoid giving in to the instinctive desire to pull away, "I kind of missed my partner, you know."

"You did?"

"Of course. In case you hadn't noticed, we kind of make a pretty great team."

"I guess I had noticed that, from time to time," I agree, forcing a smile to my lips in spite of the fact that all I want to do in this moment is forget that I ever came up with this plan in the first place. In truth, I am more than well aware that I might just be in over my head, regardless of whether or not I am willing to back down now. And so, in hopes that it will steel my courage for whatever I may have to do going forward, I continue to meet Andrew's gaze, my hand reaching forward to squeeze gently at his forearm before I am dropping it back to my side before going on, "Listen, why don't you go ahead and start on rounds while I get changed. I'll catch up with you soon."

"Sure thing. So, does this mean-does this mean we're good?"

"Yeah, Andrew," I sigh, hoping beyond hope that I have not allowed any of the resignation and reluctance I am feeling to make its way into my tone as I square my shoulders and watch as my colleague exhales in what can only be relief before stepping forward and tugging me into an unwanted, but apparently unavoidable embrace.

"We're good."

If only I could persuade myself that those words were more than just another lie...

…

After settling back into the predictable routine as far as it pertains to monitoring the patients that come through the ED and make their way up to the floors with Andrew, I find that I am granted the opportunity to slip away far faster than I might have anticipated, the sandwich I had snagged from one of the carts standing inside the cafeteria sitting, forgotten, on the table beside my erstwhile patient's bed as I jot down whatever I can about her condition in the small window of time I know I have before Andrew starts to wonder where I am. For the most part, Carla Russo's condition remains unchanged from when she first arrived in the emergency room, though on occasion, she does open her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Try though I might to distract her, I cannot quite seem to persuade her to look directly at me. And although that reality concerns me more than just a bit, I am aware that there is next to nothing I can do about that, now, my lips pursing into a frown as I contemplate whether or not asking Billy about if that is a usual quality in his mother would do more harm than good.

I am not foolish enough to pretend I know the full story, there, but I would be blind to have missed how the subject of his mother had put Billy on edge even more than he already was.

Frowning as I mull over the prospect of how best to proceed, I shut the cover of my impromptu notebook, and lean forward until both elbows rest upon my knees, the fingers of one hand dragging through my hair while I regard my patient with a pitying look before speaking, despite knowing she will likely not see fit to answer me at all.

"What the hell am I supposed to do to help you, Carla?"

Predictably, no answer is immediately forthcoming, the reality of that fact provoking a sigh as I force myself to stand and reach for the discarded sandwich in hopes that I will leave no trace of my presence here at all. I know that I am pushing boundaries. That if Andrew, or anyone else gets even the faintest hint of the fact that I am interfering with protocol, and enforced restrictions as far as my seeing her in the first place, I stand a very real chance at a jeopardized career. But even with that reality staring me in the face, I know that I would never have been able to stand aside and leave her care in the hands of others.

I am not so vain that I feel my own talents surpass that of my coworkers, but I am also still very apprehensive of Andrew's ability to give Billy's mother the level of treatment she deserves.

Still, I have not missed that, at least thus far, nothing seems awry in the course of action he has been following, and so I do my best to force myself to turn from Carla's now sleeping frame, and head into the hallway outside of her room, instead. If the sudden buzz of my pager against my thigh is any indication, another case has just come in that will soon require my attention...

I will simply have to make the best of what little notes I was able to make later on, and hope they will be enough to tell Billy what might need to be done for his mother next.

Lord knows he will not want to hear anything from Andrew.

…

"Where'd you go just now?"

"What?"

"You disappeared on me," Andrew clarifies, plopping down in the empty chair beside me in the otherwise empty conference room, and tossing a bag of potato chips my way before going on, "You working another case?"

"No. No, I just needed some air."

"Everything okay?"

"More or less," I assure, once again forcing myself to smile, and noting with some belated amusement that the gesture appears to be becoming something of a habit, whether I want it to or not, "Did I miss anything major?"

"Not at all. It's been a bit of a slow day."

"Until now. I'd bet my next paycheck you just jinxed us."

"Oh really?" Andrew intones, popping a chip into his mouth from his own bag, and watching me carefully until I take the hint and reach for the bag he tossed my way just a few moments before, "You have any scientific proof to back that up?"

"Only the experiences of countless doctors and nurses over the years," I quip, noting the skeptically raised brow Andrew is sending my way, and yet choosing to ignore it in favor of going on, "You've seriously never heard of this before?"

"I don't really go in for superstitions, Lex."

"Yeah, well, this particular superstition is kind of leaning towards fact."

"You're kidding."

"I kind of wish that I wasn't. But no. I'm not kidding."

"Wow," Andrew breathes, disbelief coloring his tone as he leans back in the chair he occupies, and uses the hand not already holding his bag of chips to ruffle the top of his hair, as though it really needs any help maintaining its usual artful disarray, "I've got to admit, you're kind of catching me off guard here."

"Why is that?"

"Because I never thought you were the sort to believe in old wive's tales."

"This is not an old wive's tale, Andrew," I argue, somewhat surprised by the vehemence in my reply, though I find myself flushing almost immediately in response to the soft laughter Andrew gives me in response, "And you're messing with me."

"Does it really surprise you that I am?"

"Maybe a bit, given what-what happened the other day."

"That's in the past, Lex. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened," Andrew states, rather mercifully focusing almost entirely on the next chip he has just plucked from the bag, so that my startled expression goes completely unnoticed as a result, "But just for old time's sake, why don't you tell me about this superstition you seem so adamant about, anyway."

"You sure you really want to hear it?"

"Positive. Give me your worst."

"Okay. Well every single time someone makes a comment about a slow day, I can guarantee you it turns into the precise opposite in seconds, flat."

"So you think that, because I said it was slow-"

"That it's going to turn into chaos any moment, now. Yes," I confirm, allowing a faintly satisfied smile to cross my lips as Andrew regards me for a moment or two in silence, before shaking his head in apparent disbelief and crumpling the bag of chips in one hand so that he can toss it into a nearby trash can, and stand to his full height to stretch apparently sore muscles not long thereafter. I can tell that he does not believe me. Not really, whether he has chosen to humor me in the moment, or not. But somehow my colleague persuades himself to adopt a smile for my benefit, anyway, a hand extending my way to help me up from my own chair that I find I am all but powerless to take, whether or not the touch of his skin against mine has me biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from recoiling in seconds flat.

"Well if that's the case, I guess we'd better get to it," He says, tugging me to rest against his side, and throwing his arm around my shoulders before I can even stand a chance of pulling away, "But before it gets too crazy, I kind of hoped I'd get a moment to ask you a question."

"What type of question?"

"My uncle is having a little get-together at his country house this weekend. I was hoping now that we're on speaking terms again, I'd be able to convince you to come along with me."

"A country house," I murmur, trying and failing to completely suppress the almost immediate panic that the thought of spending any significant time with Andrew outside of work brings on, though somehow I am still capable of maintaining my position beneath Andrew's arm, while my teeth chew momentarily on my lower lip. I know that this might just be the chance I am looking for. A means of finding out more about Andrew and his family, and gain insight into exactly what it is that has rendered him so antagonistic towards Billy as a result. And so, in spite of my lingering misgivings, and the fact that I can almost predict Billy's reaction if he was to learn of my apparent plan, I force myself to manage a sudden nod, my gaze meeting Andrew's for a moment before I give him the reply he is so obviously looking for.

"Okay. I-I'm pretty sure I'm free, so once I confirm I'll let you know for real."

"I knew you wouldn't let me down, Lex. Trust me, you're gonna love it out there."

Nodding once again in lieu of another verbal reply, I register the faint squeeze that Andrew gives my shoulders as we make our way out of the hall, and into the main atrium of the emergency department, my lips thinning into a line as I direct my gaze forward, and hope with all I have that I have not just made the biggest mistake of my life.

That I have not just done the one thing that might alienate me from Billy, for good…

…

It turns out, my prediction that Andrew's assertion that our shift will pass without incident would blow up in our faces was, surprisingly, not true, my fingers curling reflexively around the strap of my bag where it rests upon my shoulder as I walk down the street adjacent to the hospital, and head towards the parking garage that is now only a few feet away. I have to admit that the frequency with which I keep looking back over my shoulder comes almost exclusively from the belief that somehow, my theory will still come true, and my pager will start to buzz insistently from its place inside my bag to alert me to a sudden crisis that will require me to turn on a heel and head back into work. But the further I get from the hospital doors, the more apparent it becomes that such a suspicion is unfounded, a sigh escaping through my nose as I jog across an upcoming intersection, and turn into the pedestrian walkway that leads to the interior of the parking garage itself.

I am actually going home at a decent hour, and it just might be that I have Andrew to thank for that development in the first place.

Frowning as the thought of my colleague once again drags my attention back to the promise I had given him earlier that day, I force myself to consider all the potential good that could come out of the situation, rather than focusing on my fears alone. If I can get Andrew to trust me again-to let down his guard enough to perhaps even consider letting me back on Carla Russo's case-then it would be a far greater benefit for me to persist as I have planned, whether or not the decision is risky in and of itself. And yet, just as I have found myself actually relaxing a little bit in the wake of something I am still not entirely sure I will be able to pull off, I find my tentative equilibrium blown to pieces once again as soon as I round the corner in the parking garage beyond which I know I will find my car, only to almost immediately take note of the shattered glass on the cement near the passenger side door, and the slight lean the vehicle has to it on account of not one, but two flat tires.

"Oh my God," I choke out, aware of the fact that running towards my car is perhaps not one of the wisest calls I have ever made, and yet finding that I cannot entirely stop myself from doing so even in spite of that. As soon as I get a little bit closer, I see that a shattered window and slashed tires are hardly the extent of the damage, the red paint sprawled across the rear door very nearly causing my heart to stop dead within my chest. Though there are no words paired along with it, I know, somehow, that the intention is abundantly clear…

A skull and crossbones, after all, can really only stand to mean one thing.

…


End file.
